#nahimjustfeelingit-writes

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Six

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Beaufort County, South Carolina–1912

They called her Lula-Bee when she was little.

It was her grandmother’s name for her, soft as the low country wind. Said she was born with honey on her tongue and bees in her blood. That name stuck to Violet’s skin like sugar. When her grandmother, Mama Bee, said it, it sounded like a blessing. When her mother said it, it sounded like a burden.

Violet’s earliest memories were of being wrapped in lavender-scented arms, cradled in a world of old songs and sea wind, her grandmother’s voice crooning prayers that weren’t written down but lived in bones. She remembered sitting in a wooden wash tub under the sun, bees landing on her knees without fear. She’d giggle and Mama Bee would say…

“They know you sweet, Lula-Bee. They ain’t here to sting. Just to listen.”

The Ribbon

When Violet was born, her grandmother tied a lavender ribbon around her wrist—satin, worn soft from Mama Bee’s sewing basket, stitched with thread dipped in honey and salt. She whispered over it:

“Let her walk this world safe. Let her sweetness stay sweet. Let her roots run deep and her dreams stay open.”

That ribbon moved with Violet as she grew. Around her wrist, then her throat, then hidden beneath dresses. It became a part of her. She never took it off—not even when she bathed. Not even when she cried.

Her Mother, Ruth

Ruth Elanora James was born into Gullah tradition but never embraced it. She called it “backward,” and claimed Christ the way other women clung to their pearls. She married a man from the coast—a quiet fisherman named Thaddeus James, who smelled of brine and tobacco and loved the sea more than land.

Thaddeus died when Violet was five. His boat never came back. No body. No grave. Just the hush of waves and a silence that settled over Ruth like damp linen.

After that, Ruth hardened. She told Violet to stop whispering to bees. To stop drawing circles in the dirt. When Mama Bee spoke in Gullah, Ruth snapped.

“Don’t teach her that.”

“She already knows,” Mama Bee said calmly, “She was born remembering.”

The Death of Mama Bee–1920

When Violet was thirteen, Mama Bee died in her sleep.

She had lit a lavender candle the night before. The next morning, bees were pressed to the windows—hundreds of them, silent and still. Violet found her, hands folded, lips parted slightly like she’d been humming in her last breath.

No funeral songs. No mourning rituals. Ruth refused them.

“She’s gone. Let the dead stay dead.”

But Violet knew better.

That night, she tied the lavender ribbon tight at her throat and whispered her grandmother’s prayer through tears.

The bees came again. This time, they landed on her windowsill. One stayed until dawn.

The Years That Followed

Her home became a hollow shell.

Ruth remarried. A church deacon with mean hands and hard eyes. He didn’t like the way Violet moved. Said she was “too quiet, too dreamy, too soft in the face.” He scolded her for humming. Once slapped the ribbon from her neck and told her…

“That ain’t faith. That’s witch-stuff.”

Violet picked it up. Washed it. Retied it.

And from that day on, she stopped speaking unless she had to.

The dreams never stopped. She’d see Mama Bee in candlelight. Hear bees humming lullabies. Smell salt and honey before rain.

But she said nothing. She learned how to be still.

The Dream–Age 21

On the cusp of her twenty-second birthday, Violet had a dream that split her wide open.

She stood barefoot in a field of black dahlias, her grandmother waiting beneath a crooked cypress, barefoot and young again. Bees curled around her wrists.

“You don’t belong here no more, Lula-Bee,” she said, voice soft as sugar cane snapping, ��Go where the light bends strange. Go where sweetness don’t spoil.”

Behind her, the bees formed a doorway.

Violet stepped forward. When she woke, she was crying—but calm.

She packed her ribbon. Her journal. A few coins. No note for Ruth. Just silence.

The Blackline

She boarded a train west with nothing but the hum of the dream guiding her.

In Little Rock, Arkansas, she wandered aimless for two days until she ended up behind a beauty shop, ribbon loose, body tired, breath short.

That’s where a strange woman with a silver eye and a split lip found her.

“You look like a girl who’s been carrying a name too long,” the woman said, “Go on down to The Blackline. They’ll take you in. Tell ‘em Lula-Bee sent you.”

“But my name’s—”

“It’s yours. Don’t mean you gotta wear it.”

And so she went.

Now she sweeps floors and folds linens, moves like smoke through the hallways of the place, and tries not to let anyone see too much.

But the sweetness is waking again.

The ache low in her belly is not fear—it’s longing.

The ribbon around her throat is no longer a shield.

It’s a signal.

And she’s starting to look men in the eye—especially the quiet one with the hands like fire and the eyes that call her by name even when he says nothing at all.

Present Day–1929

The dream begins in stillness.

She is standing barefoot in a warm orchard at twilight. The trees are heavy with peaches and figs, so ripe they split at the seams. The air is thick with bees—but they do not sting. They hum low and golden around her, tracing lazy circles around her thighs, her neck, her mouth.

Her lavender ribbon is tied at her wrist now, not her throat. Loose. Soft. Her skin glows like honey in the light. She looks down and sees that she is not clothed, but not ashamed either. Her body feels like truth—weightless and known.

A breeze brushes her bare shoulders, carrying the scent of cedar smoke and crushed velvet. It makes her ache deep in her belly.

And then she hears it.

A man’s voice—low, velvet-rich, and ancient like the river.

“You’re not a child anymore, Lula-Bee.”

She turns, but the figure in the trees never fully steps forward. He’s shadow and shape, familiar in silence. But she feels no fear. Only knowing.

“You’ve kept the door closed. That was wise. But now it’s blooming.”

She looks down. There is a garden gate in front of her, overgrown with honeysuckle and bramble. Bees cluster at the edges—not guarding, just watching. Waiting.

The ribbon unties itself from her wrist. It floats gently to the gate and wraps itself around the latch. It glows lavender and silver in the dying light.

“When you open it, do it because the soil is soft. Because the sun feels right. Because you’re ready to be picked and not plucked.”

Violet reaches for the gate with trembling fingers.

It opens not with a creak, but with a sigh.

Inside, there’s a bed of wildflowers. A satin sheet. The scent of him.

She doesn’t lie down.

Not yet.

But she steps inside.

She chooses.

When She Wakes

Her thighs are damp. Her heart is full—not with fear, but with clarity.

She presses her fingers to the pulse at her neck, where the ribbon usually sits.

Then she whispers to the empty room…

I’m ready.

Violet sits on the edge of her bed, brushing her fingers over her ribbon. It lies across her lap like a sleeping thing—not tied, not tense, not guarding. She smooths the ends once. Twice. Then lays it beside her, picking up the small notebook she keeps hidden in her drawer.

She writes the dream down slowly, not for memory’s sake—she won’t forget—but as a kind of offering. A way of honoring what she knows now.

The door bloomed. The bees watched. I opened it with my own hand. Not because he asked. Because I was ready.

She signs it with her grandmother’s name for her.

Lula-Bee

Then closes the journal and presses it to her chest.

Her body still feels warm, still humming faintly with lavender and want.

She isn’t rushing.

But she is no longer afraid.

The soft morning light filters through linen curtains, casting a gentle warmth across Violet’s bed. Her journal lies closed beside her, ribbon tucked between the pages like a pressed petal. The room is hushed, safe. She rises, her body humming still from the dream, and makes her way down the hall to the bathing room with a fresh slip tucked under her arm.

The air inside is thick with steam and the soft perfume of rosewater soap. She pours the hot water herself, watches it swirl with a few drops of lavender oil until the scent coils upward like a memory. She undresses slowly, folding each piece of her sleepwear neatly as if in ritual.

When she slips into the bath, the water hugs her like silk. She exhales.

For a while, she just floats—arms spread, belly bare beneath the surface, the ribbon still tied at her throat like a vow she hasn’t quite spoken aloud. Her fingers drift to her lower stomach, gently resting over the ache that now feels familiar. The ache from the dream. From Smoke’s eyes. From her own breath catching in her throat when he waves at her and she waves back.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, voice barely above the water, “I want it. I want him.”

She doesn’t mean she’s ready to call him tonight. No.

But soon.

She wants to choose the hour. She wants to be touched when the moon is high and the world is still.

She closes her eyes and imagines his hands, not rough but worshipful—tracing her hips like something sacred. She wonders how it’ll feel, the moment his body finds hers. The weight. The breath. The stretch. She presses her thighs together beneath the water, cheeks warming.

And then the flame of that thought softens, not into shame, but into something brighter. A smile. A knowing.

After the bath, Violet dries herself slowly, like she’s learning herself all over again. The towel is warm against her skin. She wraps it high across her chest, tucks it firm. The mirror is fogged from the heat, but she swipes it with the edge of her hand and looks at herself—really looks. Her cheeks are flushed. Her collarbones glisten. Her skin gleams like poured honey in the morning light. She tilts her head slightly and runs a hand over her belly, then up along her side, pausing at the soft curve of her breast.

I’m a woman.

The words land in her chest like truth.

And for the first time, she smiles at her reflection.

Knock knock

A soft tap at the door.

“Violet?” A voice, warm as peach cobbler, “You decent, baby?”

Violet’s breath hitches, but she smiles again.

“Yes,” she calls, adjusting the towel slightly, “You can come in.”

The door creaks, and Minnie peeks her head around, curls tucked in a cinnamon wrap, skin glowing like golden syrup.

“Just checkin’. You been movin’ like moonlight lately! quiet and sweet. Thought I’d come say good morning.”

She steps in before Violet can reply, her bangles chiming softly as she moves. Minnie pauses behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Both of them. Side by side.

“Mmm,” she hums, eyes traveling Violet’s frame, “You see that? That’s a woman standin’ right there. Don’t matter how soft your voice is, baby. Your body’s speakin’ loud.”

Violet blushes, glancing down.

“I don’t know…I—”

“You don’t need to know,” Minnie interrupts gently, “You feel it, don’t you? That pull? That bloom in your belly when he looks at you?”

Violet nods.

“That’s your fire wakin’ up. Ain’t no shame in it.”

Minnie lifts her hand and tucks a curl behind Violet’s ear. Then she leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Violet’s cheek.

“You beautiful, baby. Own your sexy. Don’t wait for nobody to give you permission. Not even him.”

Violet’s eyes mist, but she doesn’t cry.

She smiles.

Minnie grins and pats her arm.

“Come find me if you want help pickin’ a dress for later. I got one that’s soft as sin.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving behind a breeze of gardenia, brown butter, and warmth that lingers in the doorway.

Violet turns back to her reflection.

The fog’s gone now.

And so is her doubt.

The afternoon stretches slow. The house smells faintly of wood polish, cigar smoke, and something sweet baking downstairs. Violet is walking back from the linen room when she hears voices—low, familiar, rough-edged but calm.

The office door is cracked.

She pauses.

Inside, Smoke is standing near Stack, one hand braced on the edge of the desk. His sleeves are rolled up. The muscles in his forearms flex as he gestures toward a map laid out in front of them. He’s focused, but not tense. He looks…at home.

His voice is gravel and syrupy.

“We ain’t runnin’ numbers through Vaughn’s side no more. He can bark, but he don’t bite unless we hand him a throat.”

Stack mutters something in return, sharp like flint. Smoke gives a half-smile.

Violet doesn’t step inside. She just watches—quiet, still, ribbon tied at her throat like a secret. Her eyes soften. Her stomach flutters.

Then…

Smoke turns.

He must feel her. Maybe he always does.

His gaze lands on her and doesn’t flinch.

He gives her a gentle smile—not cocky, not coaxing. Just steady warmth. Then he lifts his hand and gives a lazy two-finger wave, like he already knows what she’s thinking.

She smiles back.

Small. Timid. But she doesn’t look away.

For the first time, she lets herself want.

She just watches.

Watches the strength in his hands.

The set of his jaw.

The way the gold in his eyes glints when he glances up and sees her there.

She feels heat rise in her chest—not embarrassment, but hunger.

Because two nights ago, when the house was asleep and the halls quiet, Smoke had slipped into her room, finding her with her ribbon still tied, her breath held like a secret.

He voiced his hunger. How he felt an ache in his dick to be touched. Freed. He sat in a chair at the foot of her bed and talked to her pussy. Filthy. The heat in his eyes made her melt. All while seated at the edge of the bed, eyes dark and patient, waiting for what she’d do.

“I can…I can help?”

She’d reached for him—shy, trembling, but curious—and he’d groaned the second her fingers wrapped around his dick.

Hot. Heavy. Silken over steel.

Thick enough her hand didn’t close all the way.

He’d whispered her name like a prayer between gasps.

“Violet—sweetheart—don’t stop. Please, baby…don’t stop…I’m so fuckin’ hard…”

She remembered the way his hips stuttered, the way his voice cracked, the way his eyes burned into hers as he spilled over her fingers, slick and hot and desperate.

“Lula Bee…”

She’d stared at her hand after—wet, trembling—and without fully knowing why, she’d lifted her fingers to her lips and tasted him.

Salt. Smoke. Something masculine and faintly bitter.

She didn’t flinch. She liked it.

The memory made her legs tighten now.

She steps just a little closer to the cracked door, eyes still fixed on him. Stack is saying something now, but Smoke’s gaze flicks back toward her like he feels her looking.

She wonders—what would he sound like if she used her mouth next time?

She remembers a moment from the washroom just the day before.

Odessa and another girl, Clarisse, were sitting at the edge of the soaking tub, towels loose around their waists, sharing secrets in the steam.

Odessa’s voice had been sharp as always, but Clarisse’s was dreamy.

“Girl, I sucked that man dry, I swear. Had him speakin’ in tongues. Said I was better than church and whiskey.”

Odessa laughed, “He say that ‘cause you gag too easy. Men love a little drama.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t know how deep I can go,” Clarisse purred, licking her finger like it was a sin.

Violet hadn’t said a word. Just turned her face away, eyes lowered. But the words had burrowed into her chest like warm breath.

Now, outside the office, her eyes drop to Smoke’s mouth.

His hands.

His belt.

She wonders how he’d taste if she took him slow.

On her knees.

Ribbon still tied.

Eyes locked on his.

Would he moan?

Would he beg?

Would he touch her cheek like he did that night—tender, almost devout.

I want that, Violet thinks, I want him like that again. I want to give him more.

Not because she’s trying to earn something.

Not to be like Clarisse or Odessa.

But because she wants to.

Because the ache in her belly is hers now. Not shame. Not fear.

Desire.

Smoke glances at her one last time. His smile lingers.

Then he says something to Stack and nods once—like he’s filing her away in his chest, for later.

Violet walks away, quiet as ever.

But this time, her thighs are pressed just a little tighter.

And her smile—her secret, private smile—burns like a flame behind her lips.

Some time had gone by, and the kitchen was warm with the scent of rising bread and grease snapping in a cast iron skillet. Violet had only meant to pass through, but she slowed near the long butcher block table where Minnie and a new girl—Tallulah Rae—stood shoulder-to-shoulder, elbows floured, hands deep in dough.

Tallulah Rae was one of the older girls at The Blackline, all curves and carved cheekbones, with a velvet-soft voice that could charm a preacher into backsliding. She wasn’t loud, but when she did speak, her words always dripped with just enough suggestion to make you lean in.

“He kissed me so deep last night, I damn near forgot my own name,” Tallulah spoke with a slow grin. “Right up against the pantry door.”

Minnie laughed, “Chile, if a man ever makes me forget mine, he better be ready to carve it back into me letter by letter.”

The two cracked up, flour flying from Minnie’s hands like holy dust.

Violet paused at the edge of the room, pretending to adjust her basket of towels.

“You ever get so worked up,” Tallulah Rae continued, “you gotta help your own self out? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with knowin’ how to tend your garden before lettin’ somebody else plant seeds.”

“Tend it?” Minnie cackled, “I damn near plowed mine with a cucumber last summer. Coolest thing in the whole house.”

Tallulah whistled low, “A cucumber?”

“Long as my arm, thick as my wrist. Didn’t ask no questions, didn’t make no mess. Just did what needed doin’.”

They burst into more laughter, the kind that rippled up the walls and lingered in the rafters like cinnamon smoke.

Violet felt her cheeks flush hot.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just tucked the image into the ache blooming low in her belly.

A cucumber. Cool. Quiet. Easy.

She slipped out before they noticed her, the air outside bright and blinding after the kitchen’s golden haze. Down by the stable, Smoke was working—sleeves rolled, shirt half-open, hands slick with engine grease as he leaned under the hood of the truck.

Violet froze in the shade of the porch.

She hadn’t meant to stop. She just couldn’t help it.

His muscles pulled tight as he twisted something with a wrench. His brow furrowed, lips parted slightly, jaw flexing. A streak of grease ran across his forearm like a promise.

She watched his hand slide down his stomach to tuck in his shirt—and he paused.

Fingers spread low over the flat of his abdomen. Then they dipped lower.

Just slightly.

Adjusting himself.

Like he knew.

Like he felt her eyes.

And then—he looked up.

Right at her.

No words.

No smile.

Just that golden gaze, heavy and hungry, sliding over her body like a slow drag of whiskey.

Violet’s breath caught.

Her thighs pressed together beneath her dress.

She turned. Walked away. Quickly.

But not in shame.

She was smiling now. Small. Secret.

And as she crossed the porch toward the garden, her fingers brushed the edge of her ribbon.

The garden was quiet, save for the buzz of bees and the warm hum of Aunt Pearl singing low while plucking collards in her apron. Violet stood near the cucumbers, fingers twisting around the vine. She looked back once, no one watching, then gently plucked one of the larger ones and tucked it beneath her arm.

Her cheeks burned. Her heart fluttered.

He’s been so tense. So tight across the jaw. He needs relief. I want to please him…

She didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

But she wanted to learn.

So she grabbed the cucumber, slipped back through the side porch, and made her way inside toward the washroom to rinse it.

That’s when she heard—

“Now what exactly do you think you doin’ with that?”

Cordelia’s voice, sweet and sticky as molasses.

Violet froze.

The cucumber was still under the spigot, her fingers wrapped around it like it had already betrayed her.

She turned slowly.

Cordelia and Peaches stood at the end of the hallway—both barefoot, both dressed in house slips, and both wearing the kind of knowing grins that only came from watching a girl caught mid-sin.

“Don’t play innocent, sugar,” Peaches said, strolling forward, “You don’t even eat cucumbers unless they pickled.”

Violet blushed deep. She tried to tuck it behind her back.

“It’s for…I was just…”

“Just what, baby?” Cordelia purred, tilting her head, “You cleanin’ it up for some salad?”

Peaches laughed, “Mm-hmm. That salad named Smoke, maybe.”

Cordelia’s eyes sparkled, “You plannin’ on practicin’?”

Violet looked down, biting her lip.

Didn’t answer.

“Lord have mercy,” Peaches muttered, grinning, “This girl ain’t just sweet—she curious.”

Cordelia stepped closer, tugging gently on Violet’s wrist.

“Come on, now. Don’t go hidein’ away. We ain’t gonna tell on you…”

“We just wanna help you do it right.” Peaches said.

Violet blinked, unsure.

Peaches raised a brow.

“Unless you wanna go up to his room and choke on it without learnin’ how to breathe first…”

“Let’s go,” Cordelia said, already guiding her by the hand, “We’ll show you. Ain’t no shame in wantin’ to please your man.”

Violet held the cucumber tight, heart racing, unsure whether to laugh or hide.

But she followed them anyway.

Because deep down, she wanted to know.

And these women?

They weren’t judging.

They were initiating.

The door to Cordelia’s room shut behind them with a click.

Curtains drawn.

Sunlight bleeding soft through red silk, casting the room in a low, warm glow.

Violet stood awkwardly, cucumber still in hand, unsure where to put her eyes. Cordelia sank onto the edge of her velvet chaise, crossing her long legs slow and lazy. Peaches flopped beside her with a grin and took the cucumber from Violet’s hand like it was a baton in a relay.

“Now,” Peaches said, holding it up, “This here? It ain’t perfect. But it’ll teach you how not to gag and tear up like a schoolgirl.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes with a smile.

“You’re scarin’ her.”

“I’m bein’ honest.”

Violet fidgeted, “I just…I want to make him feel good. I don’t wanna mess up.”

Cordelia leaned forward, voice softening.

“Baby, if he likes you—and he do—he already loves the way you touch him. But if you wanna learn how to make him forget his own damn name, well…that’s a different lesson.”

Cordelia patted the cushion beside her.

Violet sat.

Peaches held up the cucumber again and started to demonstrate—slow, exaggerated licks, then letting her lips slide down the length with practiced rhythm. Violet watched, transfixed, while Cordelia giggled beside her, cheering Peaches on.

“It ain’t about how deep you go,” she said, “It’s about pressure…pace…and lettin’ him see how much you like it.”

Cordelia smiled, curling her fingers in Violet’s curls, pinning them back softly.

“Men like Smoke…they pay attention. You moan around him just a little, or look up at him while he’s deep in your throat? That man gon’ lose his damn mind.”

Violet swallowed, “Can I try?”

“Hell yes, baby girl,” Peaches said, handing it over, “Take your time.”

Violet leaned in, unsure at first—but she followed the rhythm Peaches showed her. She tried taking it slow. Using her lips. Her tongue. Watching their reactions. Cordelia gently guided her hand lower on the base. Violet continued, testing her gag reflex, receiving pointers from Cordelia and Peaches to go slow. To breathe. To take your time.

“It’s an art, baby! And art deserve to be worshipped! Don’t get all showy with it!” Cordelia said.

Peaches clapped once.

“Look at you!”

Violet laughed, blush rising high on her cheeks.

But it wasn’t shy anymore.

It was excited.

Cordelia nudged her, “Now imagine him under you. Hands in your hair. Sayin’ your name with that low voice of his…”

“Mm,” Peaches grinned, “I’d do a lot more than imagine it if I were you.”

Violet smiled, eyes shining, breathless and flushed.

“Thank you…I think I’m ready now.”

Cordelia kissed her cheek, “You more than ready, sugar. He ain’t gonna know what hit him.”

The hallway outside the dressing rooms is thick with the scent of lily perfume, cigarette smoke, and powdered talc. The door is open just a sliver, enough for light and voices to spill out.

Violet pauses mid-step—linens folded in her arms, breath catching in her throat. She didn’t mean to listen. She should keep walking.

But then she hears her name.

“Violet.”

That syrupy drawl, half-rasp, half-perfume. Odessa.

Inside the room, Odessa Mae Moreau is perched on a velvet stool, one leg crossed over the other. She’s in a silk slip the color of blood oranges, cool and dramatic against her skin. She leans forward to apply candy-red polish to her toes with slow, theatrical strokes, lips pursed in concentration. A small hand fan flicks the air near her ankles, propped on a box of costume jewelry.

Across from her, seated on a tufted settee, is a woman Violet doesn’t know well—Clarisse. Soft eyes, full laugh, hair wrapped in a printed scarf. She isn’t saying much—just small, agreeable sounds every now and then.

“Mhm.”

“Girl.”

“You think so?”

Odessa keeps talking. And talking.

“She floats around this place like a little ghost with honey in her hair. Don’t speak. Don’t sweat. Just watches Smoke like she’s praying with her thighs.”

Clarisse hums, neutral.

“I mean, she’s pretty. But sweet don’t last in a place like this. That kinda softness? Men ruin it, then get bored.”

Odessa finishes her last toe and leans back with a satisfied sigh, fanning harder.

“She ain’t built for a man like Smoke. That’s a man who needs a woman. Not a little blossom scared of her own hips.”

“Mhm.” Clarisse nodded.

“Let her have her pretty ribbon and candle eyes. Ain’t no real heat under all that hush.”

Clarisse doesn’t answer this time.

Odessa doesn’t care. She’s not talking for agreement—she’s talking to hear herself echo.

“You watch. He’ll get tired of petting that thing. Men like him always come back to fire. They always come back to me.”

She doesn’t need to hear more.

Violet steps back silently, smooth as vapor, her slippers barely whispering against the wood. She walks down the hallway with her linens pressed against her chest and a smile tugging at her lips—not shy, not sweet. Satisfied.

Because the truth is, Odessa doesn’t sound bored.

She sounds afraid.

And Violet?

She’s never felt more like a woman at that moment.

She walks away holding that moment like a secret—Odessa’s voice dripping with sharp perfume, her confidence cracking at the edges. And Smoke, somewhere behind a door, smiling at her.

Violet will keep that smile.

She’ll keep the ache in her belly.

And she’ll keep that truth Odessa can’t seem to swallow.

That the softness she carries is not weakness. It’s what men burn for.

And when Violet does open the door one night and let Smoke into her bed?

She won’t be giving him what Odessa thinks he wants.

She’ll be giving him what he’s already been falling into since the first time she looked at him and didn’t flinch.

The linens in her arms are soft, still warm from the press. She lays them down gently, smoothing the corners with instinct more than thought. The scent of cotton and lavender clings to her wrists. The house is quiet again. The voices from the office have faded into floorboards and dust. But his smile lingers, warm against her skin like sunlight through lace.

She sits at the edge of her bed. The ribbon still tied at her throat—not tight, but certain. Her palms rest in her lap, but her fingers twitch. A hush settles in her chest.

She exhales slowly, “I’m ready.”

Not just for touch. Not just for Smoke.

Ready to choose this body. This bloom. This ache.

Her fingers trail to her lower belly. She presses softly—where the heat lives now, a tender pulse low in her womb, not sharp or frightening, but full. A hum waiting to be sung. She remembers what her grandmother once told her, when she was barely old enough to understand the weight of the words.

“That part of you? That sweetness below your navel? It ain’t for shame or barter. It’s for blooming, when the season’s right. You’ll know, child. It’ll ache, and you’ll still say yes.”

Tears gather behind her eyes.

She blinks them back, but one spills down her cheek anyway. She lets it fall.

Then reaches for the small thing Smoke left her. h

His lighter.

Silver, worn. A dent at the edge where it must’ve been dropped. She turns it over in her palm—the weight of it grounding. Masculine. Familiar. The scent of his fingers still clings to it—cigarettes, spice, and the faintest edge of sweat and cedar.

She flicks it open.

The flame catches with a soft chhhk.

Orange and gold flickers dance, reflecting in her eyes.

She stares into it—not to burn, but to remember.

To claim something.

To her, the lighter is more than Smoke.

It’s heat without force. Fire without fear.

It’s the promise that something can spark and not destroy. That she can be touched and not devoured.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispers, “Not of this.”

She closes the lighter slowly, presses it to her heart.

Then lies back against the bed, ribbon at her throat, one hand still resting over her lower belly where the ache has grown sweet.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

Outskirts of Crossett – Abandoned freight yard, after dusk

The air was thick with swamp heat and the stink of rusted metal. Smoke crouched low beside Clyde behind a stack of crates, eyes narrowed on the loading dock across the yard. Moonlight sliced through the trees in slivers, but the rest was cloaked in shadow. Just the way they liked it.

“They been runnin’ numbers through here every Thursday,” Clyde whispered, wiping sweat from his brow, “But this time…they came with more muscle.”

“Felix’s?” Smoke asked.

“Two of ‘em. Recognized the tall one. Quiet. Always quiet. Mean eyes.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Just reached for the revolver holstered at his side and checked it without looking.

Across the yard, headlights flashed once—a signal. Four men emerged from a black truck, two carrying crates, the other two armed and watchful.

“That’s them,” Clyde said, breath tightening, “The weight ain’t in what they carry—it’s what they plan to move next.”

Smoke’s voice was low, clipped.

“They ain’t walkin’ out if they see us.”

“What’s the call?”

“Wait for the handoff.”

The handoff never came.

Because one of the guards turned too soon—eyes catching the glint of steel in Clyde’s belt.

He shouted.

Gunfire lit the night.

Smoke moved like water on fire.

Fast. Precise. Violent.

He shot the first one through the throat, caught the second’s shoulder and charged before the man hit the ground. Clyde ducked behind a support beam, firing into the chaos, taking one in the leg.

Another came at Smoke with a blade.

Too close.

Too fast.

Smoke took it in the side—but twisted, elbowed the man’s jaw hard enough to hear the crack—then stabbed him with his own knife. The blade sunk in smooth, fast, like the silence that followed.

Only one man crawled away—blood trailing behind him, breath rattling.

Smoke walked up slow.

Put a boot on his back.

“Tell Felix…” He leaned close, voice like gravel wrapped in heat, “If he sends more dogs, I’ll send fire.”

He knelt down, pressed the barrel of his gun to the man’s hand—and pulled the trigger.

The man screamed.

“And tell him—Booker died a traitor’s death.”

Smoke stood.

Clyde limped over, blood staining his pant leg.

“We need to get gone.”

Smoke gave one last look at the yard.

“Burn it.”

Clyde and Smoke disappeared into the night fast with tires screeching. Smoke clutched his side as he drove while Clyde created a makeshift tourniquet to stop the overflow of blood.

They made it back to The Blackline.

No need to use the secret knock or whisper the password.

The front door creaked open.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and blood curling into the velvet hush of the main hall.

Smoke stepped in—shirt torn at the ribs, dark with dried blood. One side of his waist glistened faint where the blade had kissed him. His knuckles were raw, one brow split and crusted, a smear of someone else’s blood across his cheek.

But his eyes?

Clear. Cold. Focused.

Peaches was at the bar when he walked through.

She started to speak, but froze mid-sentence. Her lips parted.

Then she just stepped aside.

“He’s in the office,” she whispered.

Smoke didn’t nod.

Didn’t slow.

Just walked.

Boots heavy on the hardwood, tracking dust and blood across the polished grain.

Stack was pouring whiskey when the door opened. He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“It didn’t go quiet, did it?”

Smoke closed the door behind him, dropped into the armchair with a grunt. He peeled his ruined shirt up, checked the blade graze at his side—flesh split but shallow.

“Wasn’t meant to be quiet,” he said, “They spotted us. Drew first.”

Stack slid him the glass.

“All of ‘em down?”

“One crawled off with a message.”

“Good.”

He watched his brother for a long moment.

“You get cut?”

Smoke grumbled, “Nicked. Took care of it.”

“And Booker?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“No sign of him. Felix must be keepin’ him locked up so I won’t find him and kill him myslef. Shoulda’ finished the job.”

The silence stretched.

Stack leaned back in his chair, “You think Felix sent ‘em to test us? Them goons?”

“I think he sent ‘em hopin’ we’d be too cautious to shoot first.”

“He forgot who the hell we are.” Stack said.

Smoke raised the glass to his lips.

“Then let’s remind him.”

The whiskey burned down Smoke’s throat, but it didn’t touch the heat in his blood. Stack lit a cigar, leaned back, and watched him like you’d watch a live wire.

“We still goin’ to Chicago?” Smoke asked.

Stack exhaled smoke through his nose, slow.

“That was the plan.”

“Still the plan?” Smoke pressed.

Stack tapped ash into the tray, gave a single nod.

“Still the plan. But the shipment’s delayed. That friend of Vincenzo’s? Got held up in Milwaukee. Might not be in the city ‘til week’s end.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched.

“That puts us at what—two days before Velvet and Vice?”

“If that.”

“Too damn close,” Smoke stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk with a scrape of wood, “We need more weapons. Not less. Felix is heatin’ up, Stack. And we still don’t know what that woman is.”

His voice dropped low—but it was the kind of low that trembled with fury.

“She ain’t just some lookout.”

“No, she ain’t,” Stack agreed, quiet.

“And Mercy?” Smoke asked, eyes narrowed, “She got anything else?”

Stack shook his head once.

“Said she’s still diggin’. Nothin’ solid yet.”

Smoke slammed the heel of his palm against the desk.

“Dammit.” He growled with a snarl.

He snatched the half-empty glass beside him and hurled it against the wall. It shattered—crystal shrapnel raining like teeth.

The sound echoed.

Stack didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just waited.

Then said, calm as ever, “You get like this every time it’s someone we can’t figure. You remember that? Ain’t the first shadow we had to drag into the light.”

Smoke braced both hands on the desk, his breath thick through his nose.

“Yeah. But this one? She ain’t movin’ like a shadow. She movin’ like a storm.”

Stack stood, crossed to his brother and put a firm hand on Smoke’s shoulder.

“Then we be the lightning rod. Not the fire.”

Meanwhile, Odessa lingered by the corner, half-shrouded in the shadows of the hallway. She’d heard the crash. The bite in Smoke’s voice. The way Stack was the only thing keeping the room from splintering open. She smoothed her hands over her sides and knocked, once.

“What?”

Stack opened the door, brows tight. The edge of tension clung to his jawline, though he masked it well.

Odessa blinked.

Her voice was soft.

“Everything alright?”

Stack’s eyes dragged over her—down and back up, slow.

“Just business.”

“Sounded more like war.”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He was still inside, gathering breath.

Odessa’s gaze cut toward him and then back to Stack.

“If y’all need anything…” she said gently, “I’m around.”

Stack gave her a faint, sharp nod.

“Appreciate it.”

He shut the door again without another word.

The hallway outside Stack’s office was dim, lit only by a flickering wall sconce and the low amber light bleeding out from beneath the office door. Odessa stood leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed beneath her bust, leg cocked just slightly—like she’d been waiting.

And she had.

Smoke stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, jaw tight, a fresh streak of blood soaking through the wrap beneath his shirt. He winced as he adjusted the fabric around his side, still tender from the blade earlier that night.

She watched him like a cat watches something small and wounded.

“Y’bleedin’,” Odessa said finally, voice sweet but sharp. Her gaze dragged down his chest, lingered at the cut, “Didn’t think anything could get close enough to touch you.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He reached into his coat pocket, tugging out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His fingers, still stained faintly red, shook just enough to be noticed. He pulled one out, placed it between his lips.

Fumbled the matches.

Odessa was already beside him.

She struck a match with ease and brought it to his cigarette, fingers brushing his chin deliberately, holding the flame a second too long.

“There,” she said, voice like honey, “Better?”

Smoke exhaled smoke through his nose, unimpressed, “Appreciate it.”

He made to move past her.

Odessa blocked his path. Her perfume was thick—too thick—and her eyes gleamed with something more than flirtation now.

“You don’t even look at me,” she said, voice no longer soft, “All that heat you carry—yet you keep it for her.”

Smoke raised a brow.

“This ‘bout Violet?” he said slowly.

Odessa’s jaw clenched, “Yeah. Violet. That little whisper of a girl. Quiet. Soft. Barely says a word unless you drag it outta her. She walks around here in your damn shirt and suddenly she’s got your eyes, your hands, your everything.”

He said nothing, his smoke curling upward like a slow, rising ghost between them.

Odessa’s voice sharpened, “I been here. I been lookin’ at you since the day I walked through them doors, Smoke. You ever ask yourself what makes her so special? What she got that I don’t?”

Smoke looked her over—not in desire, but in cold assessment. His voice was calm, low.

“She kind,” he said, “Don’t push for what ain’t hers. She listens. Moves gentle through a room without makin’ it about her. Got softness you can feel across the damn floor. Don’t gotta perform, don’t gotta force it.”

He stepped forward. Odessa didn’t back away, but her eyes flickered.

“And when she look at me,” he said, voice quieter now, roughened with truth, “it’s like she see past all this— past the money, the blood, the name. She see me. And I ain’t lettin’ go of that.”

Odessa’s throat bobbed. For a second, her face cracked—not just with jealousy, but hurt. Then she snapped her jaw shut, huffed, and turned on her heel.

“You’ll see,” she muttered, heels clicking hard as she stormed down the hall, “Girls like that don’t last in a place like this.”

Smoke stood still for a beat, watching her go.

Then he brought the cigarette back to his lips and exhaled.

“Don’t need her to last,” he spoke to himself, “Just need her to stay mine.”

Smoke sat alone in his office, the door half-closed, light from the desk lamp casting a warm gold over the wood grain and worn papers. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the cotton pushed back as he studied the fresh cut across his side — a shallow knife wound, but clean. Angry red beneath drying blood. He exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulder, testing it.

The office was quiet save for the distant murmur of laughter and music below. His jaw clenched as he reached for a bottle of whiskey, not to drink — just to press the cool glass briefly to the ache in his ribs.

A soft knock barely registered.

Then came the turn of the doorknob.

Smoke glanced up, eyes flicking toward the figure slipping in.

It was Violet.

She peeked through, hesitating, her fingers tight around the edge of the door as if she might lose nerve and turn back. She hadn’t seen him since before the stakeout, and she’d been aching with it. Ache in her chest. Ache between her thighs. Ache in the quiet moments when his absence felt like missing breath.

When she saw his bare skin, the line of the wound, she stilled.

His gaze found hers and softened. That weight in his shoulders didn’t ease—but his eyes did.

“Hey,” she whispered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She leaned back against it for a second, hands clasped in front of her, uncertain, “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You ain’t botherin’ me,” he said low, voice rough from smoke and strain, “You came lookin’ for me?”

Violet nodded, “Been…missing you.”

Smoke smiled softly, “missed you too, baby. Sorry I been tied up,” Smoke drags a hand down his face.

Violet fidgets, but then she slowly drags her eyes up to meet his again, with confidence.

“How much you miss me?” She spoke with the faintest voice.

He let the silence answer that before rising slowly from the desk. She could see now how stiffly he moved, the way his muscles bunched as he approached. His shirt hung open, and the light hit the sweat-slick edge of his chest, the trail of hair down his stomach, the faint bruising near the bandage. When he got close, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers—slow, careful, like an apology he didn’t have the words for.

She kissed him back, hands slipping up to his chest, “Are you okay?”

His brows twitched faintly. He paused, staring at her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, “Not really.”

Violet’s breath hitched.

“Business is goin’ to shit,” he added, “Things movin’ too fast. Too many players. And I ain’t got what I need to hold the line.” He pulled back just slightly, “But that ain’t your worry.”

Her hand ghosted near his ribs, “Is that from tonight?”

Smoke didn’t answer. He looked away, then gently took her hand and kissed her fingers. Without speaking, he led her to the desk and lifted her—easy, steady, like his body hadn’t just been cut open, setting her gently on the polished surface.

She gasped just a little at the suddenness of it, her thighs spreading instinctively as she settled. Smoke dropped down into his chair, eyes level with her knees, then drifting up slowly. His palms settled on the outside of her thighs. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world that didn’t need fixing.

Violet swallowed hard, her fingers twisting into his open shirt.

Smoke leaned in, resting his forehead against her sternum. Her hands came up and stroked over his hair, brushing the nape of his neck.

“Just needed to see you,” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she said softly, “You’ve got me.”

His breath slowed as her touch steadied him.

“I know,” he said, voice thick, “That’s the only thing keepin’ me from goin’ off the edge.”

The office was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the desk lamp behind him. Smoke sat back in his chair, sleeves rolled, collar loose, the weight of the day heavy in his shoulders. The bourbon glass beside him had gone untouched. His eyes weren’t on the work splayed out on his desk anymore—they were on her.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Not at first.

It was a comfortable silence between them. Tender touches. Soft caresses. She was still perched right on the edge of his desk, legs swinging just slightly, her soft thighs brushing the wood. The hem of her ivory slip dress flirted with the tops of her knees, and her ribbon—always her ribbon—was tied snug at her throat, catching the lamplight like a whispered secret. Her curls were wild tonight, haloing her face with shadow and moonshine.

Smoke reached out, slow, his fingers brushing the inside of her knee. Her breath hitched. That tiny sound—just for him—made his jaw flex.

“Come here, baby.”

Violet slipped off the desk and into his lap like silk slipping off a shoulder. Her knees bent and thighs opened as she straddled him, bare legs bracketing his hips, her body fitting into his like honey poured over warm bread. Her hands cupped his face, tentative at first, thumbs brushing the line of his jaw. He leaned in, letting her.

Their lips met—soft, searching, sensual.

Then again, deeper. His hand curved up the back of her neck, cradling her, angling her mouth just right so he could kiss her proper. He tasted the sweetness on her tongue, the breath she stole in between, and the way she gave it all back like she needed it. Smoke let out a low sound against her lips, something almost like a groan. His hands drifted down, slow, possessive, from her waist to the swell of her backside. He squeezed, just enough to make her gasp, and kissed her through it.

She rocked once against him. Just once. His dick already hard from the moment she stepped in the room, strained beneath his slacks, thick and aching. Violet shifted, and her hand slid down between them, small fingers brushing his thigh. Smoke pulled back just enough to watch her.

Then—there it was.

She reached down and cupped him through the fabric. The pressure made him grunt, hips twitching up instinctively.

“Baby,” he breathed, grabbing her wrist gently, “You ain’t gotta do that. Not unless you want to.”

Violet’s eyes lifted to his. Wide. Warm. A little scared—but glowing with intent.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, “I want to.”

Smoke studied her—really studied her. That ribbon. That mouth. That soft, trembling girl in his lap. His voice dropped.

“You sure?”

Violet nodded. Then, quietly, her fingers tracing him again, she said, “I remember…that night. How you came to me with it hard. I remember how it looked. How it felt.” Her lashes fluttered, “I want to take care of you.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He leaned forward, kissed her slow again, hand tangled in her curls. Violet continued to grip him through his slacks. The pulse in her wrist fluttered with nervous thrill.

“You sayin’ that with that little voice…” he growled against her mouth, plush lips feather soft, “Gon’ make me lose my mind.”

Her hand stayed where it was, gently palming him, feeling how thick he was, how warm. He exhaled through his nose, heavy, one hand gripping her thigh, the other cupping the back of her head.

“You touchin’ me like that…gon’ make me do things I can’t take back, baby girl.”

“…I want you to,” she whispered.

He looked up at her like a man at his breaking point.

And then he kissed her again—hotter, deeper, his tongue teasing hers, his hands locked around her hips as she moved just barely in his lap. That desk, that lamp, that tally book—they were forgotten. All Smoke could see, all he could feel, was the soft, willing weight of her on him, and the promise in her trembling hands.

Smoke was breathing harder now. Violet still straddled his lap, her small hand cupping him through the fine wool of his slacks. The weight of her, the heat of her breath, the look in her eyes—it was all unraveling him by the second.

Then she shifted.

Without breaking eye contact, Violet slid off his lap. Down to her knees. Slow. Deliberate. Her hands braced against his thighs as she settled on the floor in front of him.

Smoke’s breath caught in his chest.

“Baby girl…” His voice was thick, warning, wanting.

Violet looked up at him from between his legs, those doe eyes soft but full of something new—hunger, need, maybe even power.Her hand stroked him again, firmer this time. She dragged her palm up the long length of him, watching his jaw clench.

“I want to give more,” she whispered.

Smoke leaned back in his chair like it took everything in him not to reach for her.

“Speak it, Violet,” he said roughly, “Ain’t no shame in wanting. Tell me.”

She hesitated for only a breath.

“Please…I want to put my mouth on you.”

The words didn’t tremble—they glowed.

Something primal flickered in Smoke’s eyes. He nodded once, slow, barely.

“Go on then, baby. Take what you want.”

With trembling fingers, Violet undid his belt, unfastened his slacks. His dick sprang free, thick, flushed dark, already weeping for her. She stared at it like she remembered it from dreams—remembered the weight of it against her thigh, the way it had pressed into her belly when he kissed her hard.

She wrapped her hand around him again, tighter this time, watching his stomach tense. Then she lowered her mouth, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of arousal at the tip. Smoke cursed under his breath, one hand gripping the armrest, the other curling into a fist on the desk.

Violet kissed along the length of him first—soft, wet, delicate. Then her lips parted wider, and she took him in, slow and deep, her mouth tight and warm around him.

“Shit…” Smoke gritted, hips rocking just slightly as her lips slid down, then back up, leaving a wet sheen along his shaft. She found a rhythm, delicate and filthy—stroking what her mouth couldn’t take, tongue swirling around the crown. She moaned softly against him, and the vibration made his whole body jerk.

Smoke looked down, watching her. Her cheeks hollowing. Her fingers digging into his thighs for balance. The ribbon at her throat still perfectly tied as she sucked him like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

“Just like that,” he growled, “Fuck, Violet…you takin’ it so pretty…”

She blinked up at him, tears starting to touch the corners of her lashes from the effort, and he nearly lost it then and there. He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, eyes locked on hers.

“You keep goin’ like that, sugar…I’m gon’ fill that pretty little mouth.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t break her stare.

And Smoke—tight-jawed, wild-eyed, shaking from the restraint—could only hold on and let her ruin him slow.

Smoke’s breathing turned ragged, sharp bursts pushing through gritted teeth as Violet worked him. Her mouth, her hand, the soft sound of her lips sliding wet over his length—it was all too much. Her tongue slick with saliva. Her tiny gasps whenever his tip jumped as she licked. The way those brown eyes would blink up at him all innocent and sweet while doing something so sinful.

Smoke had to grip the arms of his chair.

“Goddamn, girl…”

His head fell back against the chair, muscles taut like wire beneath his shirt. She had him on the edge—closer than she realized, or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point. Her fingers squeezed just right at the base, her tongue teasing the underside with practiced, instinctive grace. When she moaned again around him, a filthy little hum of approval, it was over.

Smoke’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of her head—not to force, but to hold. His hips jerked, thick dick pulsing as he came, hot and heavy, into her mouth.

“Fuck, Violet—just like that—take it—take all of it.”

She did.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She swallowed everything, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment like she could feel it inside her, like it warmed her.

He watched her the whole time, dazed, undone, his body slowly easing back into the chair as his climax faded. She licked him clean, soft and unhurried, like she wanted to savor him. Then she wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him. Still on her knees. Still glowing with that strange mix of innocence and filth that drove him mad.

Smoke reached down and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her damp bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravel and heat.

She nodded, “Mmhm.”

“You sure?” he pressed, softer now.

Violet leaned into his touch, her ribboned throat still bare to him, her lips kiss-bruised and glistening.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, “I like it when you cum for me.”

That tore something open in him.

Smoke stood abruptly, pulling her up off the floor like she weighed nothing. He sat her back on the desk, cupping the back of her head as he kissed her. Deep, slow, claiming. Like he didn’t care that her mouth had just swallowed every drop of him.

Because he didn’t.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

She lifted her hips, and he slid the silk up and over, revealing bare thighs, soft skin he already knew like the lines on his own palm. He pressed a kiss there—right above her knee—then again, higher. His hands gripped her hips.

When he looked up at her, she was already flushed. Already wanting.

“Spread for me, baby,” he said, kneeling between her legs.

Violet obeyed—shy but open, knees falling wide apart as she planted her hands behind her on the desk for balance.

Smoke exhaled softly. Hungry.

“There she is,” he whispered, “Look at this little pussy. Already glistenin’. You been sittin’ up here waitin’ for my mouth, huh?”

She whimpered.

“I ain’t rushin’ this,” he said, kissing the inside of her thigh, “Not after the way you sucked my damn dick.”

Her breath hitched.

“That mouth was made to ruin me. But this—” He kissed higher, “this was made for tongue…my lips…this dick…you like knowing that, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“How much you like it?”

“So much…please, Smoke…”

He dipped his head and licked her slow, a long, flat stroke that made her cry out softly, hips twitching.

Smoke chuckled into her skin.

“Yeah, baby…that’s what I like. Let her speak to me.”

He took his time. No teasing. No playing. Just worship. His tongue moved with purpose—slow circles, deep licks, careful pressure. He sucked her clit gently into his mouth, then backed off, then returned, never frantic, never greedy.

Only sure.

Only hers.

Violet’s head fell back.

“Oh my God…Smoke—”

“That’s it. Tell me.”

She gasped, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “You feel so good…I swear I still feel your tongue hours after.”

That made him growl—low and possessive.

“You do?” he asked, licking her again, deeper, “You walkin’ ‘round all day drippin’, still feelin’ me up in here?”

She nodded, breathless, “Yes—God, yes—like I’m still open for you…”

He sucked her again, this time with more pressure.

“You taste like heaven when you beg,” he spoke, his voice thick with hunger, “So pretty and swollen…all this for me.”

She sobbed, breath catching.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please make me cum, sir.”

Smoke groaned and wrapped his arms beneath her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth devoured her—tongue working her clit in tight circles, lips sucking slow, his name tumbling from her mouth with every gasp.

“Elijah…Elijah…Elijah…”

“You gonna give it to me?” he whispered, “Let her flood my fuckin’ mouth?”

“Y-Yes—yes, I’m—Smoke—”

“Cum, baby. Let me taste what you saved for me.”

She came with a sharp cry, body shuddering against the desk, thighs locked around his shoulders. Smoke stayed there, letting her ride his mouth through the aftershocks—licking her slow and sweet, soft groans humming against her skin.

When he finally pulled back, lips wet, he looked up at her with a gaze that burned low and bright.

“You feel her now?” he whispered, kissing her thigh, “You’ll still feel her tomorrow.”

Violet trembled, voice shaking, “I never forget.”

Violet was still gasping softly, her thighs trembling where Smoke had left them parted on the edge of his desk. Her skin glowed under the warm office light, her mouth open slightly, hair wild around her face.

Smoke exhaled, still kneeling, chest rising with each breath, lips slick from her, jaw rough with stubble. He hadn’t moved to stand yet.

Didn’t need to.

He liked being there—beneath her. For her.

But Violet reached for him, fingers trembling slightly, and curled them under his jaw.

“Come here,” she whispered.

He let her guide him, rising slowly from his knees, towering over her again, his hands on either side of the desk, bracketing her body. His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath warm, tasting of her.

“Still got you all over my face.”

“I know,” she whispered, “I want to taste me on you.”

That lit something in him.

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Deep. Needy.

Their mouths met with slow fire, her lips parting beneath his, tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting what he gave her. She moaned, low in her throat, as she kissed him harder, pulling him closer, nails pressing into his arms where he held the desk.

Smoke groaned against her mouth, his tongue claiming hers, hand rising to the back of her neck to steady her.

She kissed like she wanted to melt into him.

Like she’d never get full.

When they finally broke apart, panting, lips swollen and wet, Smoke stared down at her, dark eyes searching.

“You like how you taste on my mouth, baby?” he rasped.

She nodded, flushed and dizzy, “You make me taste better.”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then just below her ear.

“You kiss me like you want me inside you already,” he whispered.

Her whole body shivered at that.

“Maybe I do,” she said quietly.

Smoke pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. What he saw there—the trust, the fire, the surrender—it nearly broke him in the best way.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he said, “You kissin’ me like you proud of what I just did to you.”

“I am,” she whispered, “You made me feel beautiful.”

He smiled—slow, crooked, dark with promise.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Violet’s breath caught.

He smirked, devil-sweet, brushing his nose along hers.

“Now,” he added, tucking himself back in and adjusting his slacks, “you sittin’ pretty up on my desk like that—lookin’ like somethin’ I dreamed—I suggest you stay right there ‘til I get a rag and make sure you good.”

She smiled, small and warm, legs swinging again, “Yes, sir.”

Smoke paused mid-step.

Then turned back, grabbed her chin with two fingers, and kissed her again—messy this time. Possessive.

“Don’t say it like that unless you mean it, baby girl,” he warned, “That sir gon’ get you fucked right here, right now.”

Her cheeks flushed. But her eyes held.

“I mean it.”

Smoke groaned low in his throat.

And just like that—he knew he was hers.

Smoke returned with a warm, damp cloth and a towel slung over his shoulder. He moved slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving her. Violet still sat on his desk, quiet now, hands curled in her lap like she wasn’t sure what came next.

He touched her knee first—gentle.

“Lay back for me, sugar.”

She did, her curls spilling across the polished wood. Smoke knelt slightly, easing her thighs apart with both hands, pressing reverent kisses to the soft skin there before tending to her.

He cleaned her with care.

No rush. No shame. Just slow, quiet devotion. The kind that came from a man raised by women who taught him to respect softness without ever fearing it. When he was done, he dried her gently and helped her sit up again.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Violet nodded, biting her lip, “Did I do okay?”

Smoke huffed a small laugh, leaning forward until his mouth brushed her ear.

“You did so fuckin’ good, baby. Had me sittin’ there starin’ like a fool, tryin’ not to beg.”

She giggled—soft, shy.

Then her arms circled his shoulders, and he gathered her close, hands splayed on the small of her back, mouth pressing to the hollow of her throat just above the ribbon. They stayed like that for a beat. Maybe two. Breathing each other in.

Then—

A sound.

Barely audible.

The creak of a floorboard outside the office.

Smoke stiffened instantly.

He turned toward the door just as it opened.

Stack.

The light from the hallway caught his brother’s face just right—and that was all it took.

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he saw it.

In Stack’s eyes. That glassy flash of cold, coiled readiness. Something was off. Something was coming.

They didn’t need words.

Smoke stood slowly, stepping between Violet and the door with a protective instinct that didn’t need thinking. His body shifted—loose but lethal, every inch of him now alert beneath his still-rolled sleeves and open collar.

Stack just nodded once. Tight. Barely.

That was enough.

Smoke turned back to Violet, cupping her cheek, the kiss he gave her now softer than all the ones before.

“I gotta go,” he said quietly.

Her brows drew together, worry blooming.

“Smoke?”

“I’ll be back, baby,” He kissed her again. “You stay right here, alright? Don’t open this door for nobody ‘less it’s me or Stack.”

Violet nodded, gripping the edge of the desk like it might anchor her.

Smoke gave her one last look—torn between wanting to shield her and needing to move.

Then he turned to Stack.

And whatever softness had been in him seconds ago burned clean away.

Mercy returned just before midnight.

She didn’t come dressed in lace or veils this time—just a long coat, boots, and a quiet tension clinging to her like fog. Her usual silk gloves were gone. Her rings were gone too. She looked like someone preparing for war, or a funeral.

Smoke opened the office door before she knocked.

Stack was already pouring a drink.

“I got somethin’,” she said, stepping inside.

“Booker?” Stack asked.

“Gone,” she said flatly, “Real gone. No funeral. No whispers. Just…vanished.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed.

“And the woman?”

Mercy paused. Took the glass from Stack and drank before answering.

“Séraphine,” she said, “That’s her name. Least, that’s the one I’ve heard before.”

She set the glass down.

“I didn’t meet her myself. But someone close to me did.”

She pulled a folded letter from her coat pocket. The edges were frayed. The handwriting inside was tight, frantic.

“My oldest girl—Ree. She ran with me before I ever opened Swansong. Back when I was still dancin’. She got caught up with a man in Plaquemine Parish—rich, mean, and fascinated with the dead.”

“A rootworker?” Smoke asked.

“No,” Mercy said, “Worse. A collector. Had bones in glass cases. Women’s hair tied in braids hung over his desk. Ree said he brought home a woman one night who wasn’t like the others.”

She tapped the letter.

“Said the woman didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just sat in front of a mirror and talked to it like it talked back.”

“Séraphine?” Stack asked.

“I believe so.”

Mercy leaned forward.

Her voice dropped low.

“She said one night, the whole damn house caught fire. No lanterns. No storm. Just lit from the inside. The man burned alive. So did Ree’s cousin. But that woman?”

Mercy’s eyes met Smoke’s.

“She walked out the front door. Didn’t even smell of smoke.”

A long pause.

Then—

“Ree ain’t been right since. Can’t speak above a whisper. Can’t sleep if there’s a mirror in the room.”

“So what is she?” Stack asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Mercy’s voice didn’t waver.

“She’s old. She’s wrong. And she don’t bleed easy.”

“You still think she’s mortal?” Smoke asked.

“I think she was,” Mercy said, “A long time ago.”

She stood.

“You boys need to stop thinkin’ like this is a turf war.”

“What is it then?” Stack asked.

Mercy looked between them both.

“It’s a haunting. You just ain’t dead yet.”

A sugarcane field just past the riverbend. Dusk.

Booker was already broken when Felix brought him out there.

The finger was gone—clean slice, done by Smoke with surgical grace—but it wasn’t the bleeding that made him shake.

It was the knowing.

That whatever chance he had left…wasn’t standing in front of him.

It was walking behind him.

Barefoot. Silent. Wearing black.

Séraphine.

Felix didn’t say much.

Just lit a cigarette with calm hands and said,

“You should’ve stayed loyal, Booker. You gave us up.”

Booker dropped to his knees in the dirt, voice trembling, face slick with sweat and desperation.

“I swear I ain’t mean no harm. I didn’t know the crate was marked, I didn’t know they was gonna come after me—”

Felix looked past him, toward Séraphine.

And nodded once.

That was all.

She stepped forward.

No words. No threats.

Just the soft drag of her veil brushing against cane leaves.

Booker scrambled back, crab-crawling in the dirt.

“Wait—wait, please—who the hell even is she?!”

Séraphine didn’t answer.

She crouched near him.

Laid one hand gently against his cheek.

And Booker started to scream.

He saw it before it touched him.

Rats. Dozens. Hundreds. Not real—but they crawled up his thighs, down his spine, into his mouth. Their squealing filled his ears. His own breath vanished. Every sound warped and slowed. He was suffocating on a memory that wasn’t his—but felt real enough to choke on.

Then his mother’s voice.

Calling him home.

But she’d been dead twenty years.

He clawed at his eyes and fell to his side.

Convulsed.

His voice cracked from shouting names no one knew.

Séraphine stood over him, her face calm as glass, and whispered something in Creole no one else understood.

Booker’s heart gave out in silence.

Mouth open.

Eyes wide.

Still trying to crawl out of whatever illusion she had poured into his head.

Felix took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the dirt.

“Have someone bury him deep. Salt the earth.”

He turned to Séraphine, who was brushing off her hands.

“What’d he see?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled.

“Enough.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[cremeful]

𝐃𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 ⵑ 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐏ⵑ𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 | 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓.

before anyone says “dad bf?! gross!!” dadbf! is simply a term for an olderman that gives a role like of authority / figure for their partner !

must have or / be logged into twitter to access the videos.

these videos are based on my interpretation of smoke.

most videos are black men but other videos of different races simply bc i think it’s something stack would do :3

papa smoke giving you backshots ! ( non black man )

camping trip with smoke !

making your mark on smoke !

riding smoke until your legs shake !

mirror sex with smoke !

smoke handling your attitude !

smoke making your squirt for the first time && talking you through it !

deep strokes and eye contact with smoke !

car sex with smoke !

smoke face fucking you until you make a mess !

smoke eating you out !

smoke making you choke on it ! ( non black man )

smoke making you go dumb and brain dead ! ( non black man )

👩🏽‍🍳 : @prettyfilmz , @hallucinagin , @woahitslucyylu , @queenofklonnie22 , @cafeluvs , @earthreturn , @bl3ssyn , @michifilmz , @tonichildsdaughterduh , @thebumbqueen , @tojisteddy , @nahimjustfeelingit-writes , @christinabae , @ami-s-k , @pinkkycherrish, @decayingearf

[thevelvetwhispers]

Smoke & Annie — SINNERS Masterlist

@massiv3tr33p3rsona — home [stack X reader X annie]

@zunibugsiren — uprising

@yamst3rdamctrl — in a blink of an eye

@araybiaaa — held by you

@szatears — just a little something

@melodyofmbaku — mind your manners

@uzumaki-rebellion — in you arms tonight

@soufcakmistress — distance

@enticingmelanin — savor [modern!au]

@ingeniousmindoftune — a beautiful sin [part 1 2 3 4 5] [smoke X reader X annie]

@melodyofmbaku — a warm spring sunday

@mrsknowitallll — a little loving [stack X reader X annie]

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes — the hoodoo apprentice [part 1 2 3 4] [smoke X stack X reader X annie]

@moth2flamewriting — easier

@somebodys-babyy — in their paradise

@moth2flamewriting — publicity stunt

@partylikemajima — summer sensation

@theegyal — hush [part 1 2]

@thebumblebeesworld — big brown eyes

@melodyofmbaku — touch of a woman

@livingmybestfakelifefor — once in my life [part 1 2]

@fastasyoucant — never gon' leave

@zunibugsiren — 562 days

@twistedsistas-stuff — do it together

@sheabuttahwrites — where there’s smoke, there’s fire

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Eight

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

The attic held a kind of hush that felt like a cathedral at dusk.

Not a silence, but a velvet stillness—soft, expectant, thick with value. The kind of quiet you whisper into without being told. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t lonely. It was womb-warm and dusk-dark, wrapped in slanted beams of amber light leaking through the porthole window, painting the floorboards with gold.

Above them, the rafters cradled cascading silks—wine-colored, violet, deep blues—all swaying gently in the draft like they were breathing. A linen sheet had been spread over the floor and weighted at the corners, and atop it, folds of velvet and satin layered like a nest. Someone had once stored fabric up here, or maybe dresses from decades past, but now they softened the space like memory itself had been laid bare.

Everywhere was softness. A place to fall open.

Their voices floated in the loft like prayers.

Smoke stood frozen by the door, his chest rising hard beneath his white shirt, jaw clenched so tight it twitched. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He looked like he’d been hit square in the chest by something bigger than lust.

“You sure?”

Smoke’s voice was low—deep like gravel wet with bourbon, but gentle around the edges and skin glowing with the sheen of want.

Violet nodded slowly, eyes shining behind her mask, lips parted just enough to tremble. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it rang through the attic like a bell.

“I want this. I want you.”

That was all it took.

Below them, through the floorboards, came the faint throb of the Velvet and Vice party—a muffled beat of blues guitar, the occasional wail of a trumpet, a woman’s laughter that turned into a moan before fading. The world was still moving, still writhing in heat and sin, but it felt far away. Here, in the loft, time slowed to breath and heartbeat.

Ba-dum…Ba-dum…Ba-dum.

His eyes dragged down her—jaw, collarbone, breasts, thighs—with a adoration so deep it burned. His fingers twitched at his sides. His chest rose faster. But he didn’t speak.

Smoke’s hand cupped Violet’s cheek. She leaned into him, skin flushed, silk brushing against her shoulders like feathers. Somewhere behind her, the mirror caught their reflection—not bold and sharp like stage lights, but ghosted in gold, blurred by light and softness. Their bodies looked half-dreamed.

Even the dust here sparkled, suspended like it had paused to watch.

And though the attic was warm, Smoke shivered at the sound of her voice.

Not from cold.

But from the weight of being invited into something so tender, so holy, and so achingly real.

“I want you to look at me, Smoke,” she said, her voice low, molten, “All of me.”

Her hands went to the straps of her white velvet gown.

She slid them down, one after the other, so slowly the fabric seemed to sigh. The gown clung for a moment to her breasts, then slipped—molasses-slow—over her skin, pooling at her feet like spilled cream.

She stepped out of it.

Naked.

Except for the ribbon still tied at her throat. A single lavender bow resting against the hollow of her neck. Her skin gleamed in the moon light—soft, full, golden-brown, glowing like candle flame licked over flesh.

Smoke still hadn’t moved.

He didn’t have to.

Violet moved for him—slow, swaying to the rhythm of the blues. Her hips rolled gently with the beat, her breasts bouncing just slightly, her breath getting heavier.

She ran her hands down her own body—over her waist, her belly, the inside of her thighs. Her voice came out on a shuddered breath, but it didn’t falter.

“I want you to see what’s yours.”

Smoke’s eyes snapped up to her face.

“I’m ready, Elijah.”

She rarely used his name.

That alone nearly broke him.

“I’m ready for you to take me. Claim me. Make me yours so deep I forget what it was like to be untouched.”

A sound broke from his throat—half-growl, half-prayer.

“You don’t know what you askin’, girl,” he rasped.

Violet stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. Close enough that her breasts nearly brushed his chest.

She touched the buttons of his vest—slow, deliberate—and whispered…

“I know exactly what I’m asking.”

Then she turned.

Walked backward toward the velvet and silk splayed across the floor. Still moving to the blues. Still glowing. She climbed onto the drapery, her thighs parting just enough, knees bent, feet flat, ribbon catching the light as she looked back at him through her mask.

“Come here,” she whispered, “Take your time. But take me.”

Smoke reached behind him and locked the door.

Then he moved.

Slow and silent—like a wolf circling a flame.

He peeled off his vest first. Then his suspenders. He undid each button on his shirt like he was unwrapping something dangerous. His eyes never left her. When he pulled the shirt off, his chest gleamed with sweat. Broad. Scarred. Lined with strength and ache.

He knelt at the edge of the drapes and ran his hands up her thighs—slow, careful.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice deep as thunder under velvet.

Violet reached for him. She guided one trembling hand between her thighs, pressing his fingers where she ached.

“You tell me,” she whispered, “Does this feel like doubt?”

His fingers brushed over her wet folds.

Wet. Ready. Willing.

“Tell me to kiss you,” he rasped.

“Kiss me like I’m already yours.”

Smoke swore. Crawled up her body. Kissed her full on the mouth—hard and deep—then pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut tight like he was trying to survive.

“I’ll go slow,” he said.

“No,” she breathed, “I want you to go how you feel.”

He looked at her.

And then he moved.

Smoke didn’t remember crossing the space between them.

One second, Violet was there molded into fabric, bare except for that lavender satin ribbon tied around her neck like a kept promise, her knees parted and the blush on her skin glowing like morning after sin.

The next, he was on her.

Not fast. Not frantic.

But with that slow, dangerous gravity that only happened once a man stopped fighting his desire. He leaned in, both hands braced on either side of her, and hovered—just enough distance for breath to pass between them. His eyes were locked on her lips. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles.

Violet’s voice shook—but not from fear. From knowing.

That did it.

Smoke’s mouth descended on hers like it was the only salvation left in the attic. His lips were hot, full, and rough, the way only a man who’s been starving can be. Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just…needy. Like he’d dreamed about the taste of her for weeks and couldn’t believe it was real.

Violet moaned into it, fingers smoothing down the front of his hair, yanking him closer at the nape of his neck, hungrier. Her lips parted beneath his, soft and slick, and when he licked into her mouth, she opened wider for him—welcoming, bold, burning.

His tongue met hers in slow, wet strokes—deep, velvety, every movement dragging low in her belly. Her thighs clamped around his waist. The kiss tilted, deepened, grew dirtier as they lost themselves in it. Smoke sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, bit down just enough to make her gasp, then soothed it with the flat of his tongue.

He pulled back an inch, just enough to speak against her lips.

“Jesus, girl…you taste like sin dressed in sugar.”

And then he kissed her again—slower this time, more focused, like he was trying to memorize her with his mouth. His hand cupped the side of her throat, thumb grazing the ribbon. The other slipped under her thigh, lifting her higher against him. Every part of her body arched into the kiss like it had been waiting years for this moment—this heat, this weight, this man.

Violet whimpered, tugged him closer.

Her voice broke against his mouth.

“I can feel you shaking.” She whispered.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep kissing me like that,” he muttered, barely holding himself up.

“Then don’t.” She whispered, biting down on his bottom lip, “Fall with me.”

He groaned—guttural and filthy—and kissed her so deep she forgot her name.

Smoke kissed her like he was unraveling—like every second of restraint had finally snapped loose and now there was only heat. Hunger. Her. Violet clung to him, trembling, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands trembling against his shoulders. The kiss deepened until it wasn’t a kiss anymore—it was breath sharing, it was mouths devouring, it was I want you, I need you, I am not leaving here untouched.

But still, he didn’t thrust. Didn’t take.

Not yet.

He broke the kiss, barely.

Breath ragged. Eyes locked to hers through the mask. His voice was low and dark, broken open at the edges.

“I can see how bad you want it, baby,” Smoke spoke, chest heaving against hers, “You want slow? soft? Or you want me the way I really feel it…wild and deep and too much?”

Violet ran her hand down his chest, fingers tracing his sternum, the dip below his ribs. Her touch was feather-light—but deliberate.

She whispered, “I want it all.”

Smoke exhaled hard, like she knocked the air out of him. Then he kissed her jaw, her throat, the edge of the ribbon, dragging his mouth along her skin with wet heat and a devotion so intense it made her knees weak.

“You ain’t soft, Violet,” he whispered against her neck, “You’re blazing, baby. You think I don’t feel it?”

She gasped then guided his hand between her thighs again.

“Feel this,” she said, voice breathy and rising, “and tell me I’m not burning for you.”

He groaned, deep in his chest. His fingers moved through her folds—slick, swollen, warm—his touch slow and exploratory. Like she was a new language he’d been dying to speak.

“You soaked, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing her temple, “You feel like heaven. So wet…”

His fingers stroked up and down, circling her clit with the pads of two fingers—just enough pressure to make her whimper. She arched into him, biting her bottom lip.

Her voice shook, but she didn’t hold back.

“Don’t tease. Touch me like you mean it.”

He growled, deep and low, and did exactly that—rubbing slow, firm circles, slipping one finger inside her, then two, pumping carefully, stretching her as she clenched around him.

“I can feel you flutterin’, baby,” he said, his voice breaking, “So tight…you gon’ come just like this, ain’t you?”

She nodded, eyes fluttering, biting down on her bottom lip, hips grinding down against his hand.

“Yes…Smoke—please, don’t stop…” she begged in that little voice.

He kissed her again—harder this time, tongue deep, claiming, messy. His hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t slow. He kept her right there, circling her clit, curling his fingers inside her. Violet whimpered, eyes flicking from between her legs to his eyes.

“You need it bad, don’t you?” he whispered against her mouth, “You been dreamin’ ‘bout this, layin’ in that little bed, slippin’ your fingers down and pretendin’ it was me?”

“Yes,” she moaned, “Yes, I have, sir. I’ve been touching my pussy to the thought of you since the moment I saw you.”

That undid him.

“You nasty little thing…fuck…since you first saw me? Huh?”

“Yes,” she moaned.

He moved faster, pressing his thumb down just right, until her body began to tense, her thighs trembling.

“Damn, baby…wet ass pussy…and you giving this precious little box to me?” Smoke whispered with a filthy exhale.

“Yes, daddy…all for you. To fuck…to lick…make me open up for you,” Violet trailed a singer finger down Smoke’s face until it curled beneath his jaw. She leaned in, and slowly flicked her tongue against his plush lips, “Daddy, I’m gonna cum.”

“Yeah?”

Violet nodded her head with a pout of her lip. She was so wet and sensitive. She could feel the ache in her belly grow bolder, stilling her legs.

“Cum for me, Violet,” he rasped, “Cum on my hand. Show me how sweet you taste when you fall apart.”

She shattered.

Her hips bucked. Her mouth dropped open in a moan so raw it cracked in the middle. Her walls clenched tight around his fingers as she pulsed, wet and rhythmic, riding it out in his arms, eyes wide behind the mask. Smoke watched every second, lips parted, chest heaving. His fat dick strained against his slacks, but he didn’t move for himself—didn’t even flinch.

He was entranced.

When her body finally stilled, he pulled his fingers from her slowly, wet and glistening.

Then—locking eyes with her—he brought them to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

She reached for him—desperate now, trembling, glowing.

“Your turn,” she whispered, her lips swollen, “I want to feel you…all of you. Fill my pussy.”

Violet lay sprawled across velvet and silk, her thighs still twitching, lips parted, skin glowing.

Her ribbon had loosened, one end hanging down between her breasts, catching the candlelight like a flag of surrender. But her eyes—what Smoke could see of them behind the pearl-tulle mask—weren’t surrendering anything.

They were hungry.

“Smoke…” Her voice was a whisper, half-wrecked from the way he’d made her come, but still thick with want, “I need you.”

He was kneeling between her thighs, half clothed—forearms taut, the buttons of his slacks straining around his dick. His hands rested on her thighs like he was trying to pray her back together.

“I know you do,” he rasped, voice rough, “I feel it. I smell it.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing her knee. Then her inner thigh.

“Still shakin’ for me, sugar?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he spoke, “You ain’t done.”

He kissed a path up her thigh, mouth hot and open, breath dragging over the wetness he’d left behind. Violet arched, gasped, but he didn’t lick her again.

He just breathed her in.

Slow.

Deep.

“You smell like heat and want.” he growled against her skin, “Like velvet burned down to the bone.”

His hands moved over her hips, up her ribs, over her breasts. He cupped one and ran his thumb across her nipple until it peaked. Then leaned in, letting his lips hover.

Not touch.

Just hover.

Letting the air between them throb.

“Say it again,” he said, “Tell me what you want.”

Violet reached up and grabbed the back of his neck—fingers squeezing a little, pulling until his mouth finally brushed her skin.

“I want you to lose control,” she said, “I want to feel your mouth. Your tongue. Your dick. I want you to take me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You want my mouth?”

She nodded, breath ragged.

He kissed her breast, sucked her nipple in slowly, circled it with his tongue while his other hand moved between her legs again.

She whimpered, hips lifting.

“You want my dick?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes—please—”

“Then be still,” he growled, voice shaking with restraint.

He sat back on his heels. Undid the button of his slacks. Pulled them down and off. Kicking his oxfords and socks with it.

Violet stared, wide-eyed, mouth parted. The fabric opened and—

God.

His dick was thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip, twitching as he gripped the base.

He pumped it once. Twice. Just enough to coat his palm.

Her eyes dropped to his hand. Her breath caught.

He moved forward—pressed the head against her slit, not entering, just dragging it up and down. The friction slick. Torturous. Perfect.

“You feel that?” he whispered, “That ache right here?”

He rubbed her clit with the tip. She cried out.

“That’s me, baby. All of me. You ready to beg for it yet?”

Violet arched her hips.

Then—bold as anything—she reached between them, wrapped her hand over his, guiding his dick to her entrance.

Her voice trembled, but her words didn’t.

“I’m already begging inside, daddy.”

Smoke growled—a deep, wrecked sound—and dropped his forehead to hers.

“I can’t go slow for long, baby…I just can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

The lamp light flickered near them, scattering gold light over sweat-slicked skin and slow-burning sin.

Violet sat half-upright now, propped on one elbow, thighs spread wide in invitation. Her body was flush and radiant, lips kiss-swollen, glowing with release—and yet, not even close to satisfied. Her hand wrapped around Smoke’s thickness—firm, sure, trembling just slightly with the weight of what she held. He knelt between her thighs. His body gleamed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run through fire.

“Watch me,” she said, voice low and soaked in heat.

And he did.

Smoke’s jaw clenched tight, lips parted, eyes hungry as her fingers guided his big dick between her folds—slow, achingly slow—gliding along the length of her slick center.

His dick was flushed dark, veiny, heavy in her hand. Precum glistened at the tip, catching the moonlight as she dragged it up through her arousal. His shaft slid like silk between her folds, catching at her clit each time she pressed forward just enough to make them both twitch.

Wet sounds filled the space between their bodies—slick, filthy, honest.

She bit her bottom lip.

Pressed the head against her clit again. Rubbed it in slow, lazy little circles that made her thighs tremble.

Smoke swore under his breath. His hands balled into fists at his thighs, every muscle in his body tense with restraint.

“Jesus…Violet…”

His voice was a gravel scrape—half warning, half worship.

“You see what you doin’ to me? Got my dick so fuckin hard.”

She nodded slowly, dragging him down again, her folds parting around the swollen head of his dick like they’d been made to cradle it.

“You feel it?” she whispered, “How soft I am for you? How much I want it? How wet I am?”

Her grip tightened just a little. She stroked him, sliding his length back and forth, coating him in her wetness until the entire shaft gleamed.

“You’re so hard, sir,” she whispered, eyes wide behind the mask, “You’re shaking, Smoke…”

“I’m holdin’ on by a fuckin’ thread,” he breathed, “You keep that up, I’m gonna nut before I even get inside you.”

She lifted her hips, letting the head of his big dick catch at her entrance—not entering—just there. Tempting. Tormenting.

“I want you right here,” she said, voice breaking with lust, “Right where I ache the most.”

Smoke’s hand shot out—gripped her thigh.

Violet circled her soaked hole with his flushed tip. In tortuous fashion. Her breaths ragged. The sound of her slick loud. Smoke groaning low.

“Then stop teasin’,” he growled, trembling, “You ready for it? All of me?”

She smiled—soft, open, utterly unraveled.

“I’m ready for everything.”

Smoke gripped the backs of Violet’s thighs and spread her wide, wrapping them around his waist. Her hips tilted toward him, skin damp and glowing in the moonlight. The lavender satin ribbon still clung to her throat, looser now, trailing over one shoulder like an unspoken promise. It fluttered faintly with every breath she took, every tremble of want and nerves. Her mask stayed on. Her eyes locked on his.

Smoke hovered above her, braced on his forearms, his chest rising and falling like he’d run through fire. His face was close—so close—and his eyes searched hers like she was something sacred, something breakable and burning.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low and rough, “You want me to untie it?”

Violet looked up at him, and though her lashes were damp, her mouth trembled into something tender. Brave. Soft and blazing all at once.

She nodded.

But then she whispered.

“Yes. I want you to.”

Her voice was so small, but it rang like thunder in the hush of the attic. A storm in silk and skin. Smoke exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself. Then he reached up, calloused fingers trembling as they found the satin bow. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t tug. Just held it for a moment, like it was the last ribbon on a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then slowly, delicately, he began to pull.

The knot gave with a whisper-soft sigh, and the two ends fluttered down over her collarbones. Her breath caught. Her body arched.

Smoke leaned in.

He didn’t speak. He just lowered his mouth and kissed the spot where the bow had been tied, right above her pulse, where her heartbeat raced wild beneath her skin. A soft, open-mouthed kiss—warm and wet and full of something unspoken.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered into her skin. “So brave.”

Violet’s hands slid up his chest, fingers curling near his shoulders. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. The ribbon now lay like an offering across her breasts, undone, and her eyes—those wide, wet eyes behind the mask—held his with an ache that begged to be answered.

Smoke rose just enough to look down at her again, chest heaving.

“You ready, baby?”

And this time when she nodded, she didn’t tremble.

She burned.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” he spoke, voice thick, trembling, “I wanna see your eyes when I fill you.”

She nodded, breath stuttering, lips parted. Her hands reached for his arms—those strong, tensed forearms, the ones that had held back for too long. He let her pull him close, brought his dick to her entrance, and paused.

Not yet. Not all at once.

He breathed against her mouth, and whispered, “You want it, baby? Tell me. Beg for it. ‘Cause I’m ready to give you what you deserve.”

Violet’s voice cracked open, soft but certain.

“Please. I need to feel it. Need you inside me. Please, Sir.”

He kissed her then—slow, wet, tongues curling, breath sharing. One hand came to her cheek, the other still bracing her thigh as he pressed in—just the tip. A tight, perfect heat wrapped around him, making him groan into her mouth.

“Goddamn,” he choked out, “You…Violet, you’re…so…so tight.”

She gasped, hips jerking slightly. Her thighs trembled.

He didn’t move.

Held still.

Let her adjust.

His forehead pressed to hers, sweat collecting at his brow, voice trembling when he spoke again.

“You okay?”

She nodded, breath hot against his lips. Her body pulsed around him, soft and slow, trying to make room.

“I feel so full already,” she whispered, eyes fluttering, “But I–I want more.”

Smoke rocked forward an inch—and Violet cried out, legs tightening around his waist. Her body stretched to take him, to welcome him deeper. She could feel the thick drag of his dick, the heavy pressure splitting her open slowly, soft walls stretching in ways they never had.

It burned, but not in pain.

In pleasure.

A deep, aching kind of stretch that made her arch and moan.

Smoke whispered against her ear, “You feel it, baby? How deep I am? That’s me…workin’ my way in. I’m makin’ my way in this pussy…inch by inch…”

His hands moved, sliding under her ass to lift her, angle her, open her more.

“Breathe,” he spoke soflty, “You takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good.”

Another inch. Then another.

Violet’s nails dug into his back. Her mouth dropped open. Her whole body quaked.

“Oh G–G–God…” she gasped, “It’s—it’s so thick. I can feel every inch of you.”

Smoke bit down softly on her throat, kissed over the spot, then whispered filth into her skin.

“You stretchin’ so sweet for me. You were made for this. Made for me. You know that?”

She nodded frantically, “Yes—yes, I want it all. I want you to fill me until I can’t breathe.”

Smoke’s hips rolled forward—deeper, slower—and she cried out, her voice breaking on the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him like a velvet vice.

“You okay?” he asked again, barely able to form the words, “Tell me, Violet.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Her voice was breathless, high, shaking with need.

“I feel everything. You’re so deep. It’s thick—it’s stretching me so wide. But it’s—fuck, it’s perfect.”

He stopped halfway in, groaned, dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

“You feel like goddamn heaven,” he said, “If I go any deeper, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered, “Take all of me.”

Smoke groaned—wrecked, worshipful—and began to move.

Smoke knelt between her thighs, completely bare, stripped down to skin and sweat and sin. His body gleamed under the moon—broad shoulders, powerful arms, a chest dusted with hair, rising and falling like he’d just run through fire and hadn’t stopped burning. Veins traced the lengths of his forearms, tension coiled in his muscles as he fought not to take her all at once. His dick hung heavy, thick and flushed, glistening at the tip from her slick, twitching with each ragged breath he drew. There was nothing left between them now. No clothes. No pretense.

Just heat.

Just skin.

Just want.

He looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world that could save him.

Smoke stayed still, buried halfway inside her, thick and throbbing where her walls clung tight—stretching, burning, aching for more.

His breath shuddered. His jaw locked.

“Goddamn, baby…” he rasped, “You so tight—grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let me go.”

Violet’s back arched. Her thighs trembled.

She was soaked around him, her slick coating his dick, her folds flushed and swollen from how long he’d teased her. The stretch made her gasp—thick, slow, just shy of too much. Her walls fluttered, adjusting, pulsing with every heartbeat.

But still, he held back.

He didn’t thrust.

He didn’t press deeper.

He worshipped.

Smoke bent down and pressed kisses across her throat, soft and slow, letting his hips grind just a little—just enough to feel her flutter again around the half of him she was holding.

“You okay?” he whispered against her collarbone. “Need me to stop?”

She shook her head, voice trembling.

“No. Don’t stop. Just…give me a second. I can feel everything.”

He kissed her again, lips open over her skin, breath burning.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he spoke, voice thick and deep, “So damn sweet, baby. You feel like heaven made wet for me.”

His hands slid up her ribs, rough palms grazing slick skin.

Then he took one breast in his mouth.

Her nipple was tight, flushed dark, sensitive from heat and wanting. He sucked slow, deep, lips sealing around it while his tongue flicked and dragged—hungry, tender, filthy.

Violet cried out beneath him.

“Oh…Smoke—yes…”

She arched into his mouth, hands threading over his hair, pulling him closer. His hips shifted just slightly and she felt it—the weight of him, the stretch still humming where they were joined.

He groaned against her skin, licked her nipple again, then moved to the other breast.

“Could suck these all night,” he rasped between kisses, “So soft. You shakin’ for me.”

“Because I need you,” she gasped, “I need all of you.”

He lifted his head, eyes glazed and burning.

“You’ll have it. Every inch. But not yet.”

He kissed her again—deep, wet, tongue sliding slow as his girth pulsed inside her. Her hips tried to rock up. He stilled her with a strong hand.

“Not yet, baby,” he whispered again, resting his forehead against hers, “Let me feel you like this. Let me memorize it—how you open for me. How you stretch around just half of me.”

Smoke stared down at the way his big dick only half way in looked. How her folds spread and bloomed around his slick girth. It was beautiful.

She whimpered.

“Then do it. Remember me, Daddy.”

“I want you to remember it too, baby. Look at this,” Smoke spread her so her hips tilted, “fuckin’ gorgeous, baby.”

Smoke kissed her slow and long. His hand gripped her waist. His dick twitched where it was buried halfway inside her heat.

Still not moving. Still holding.

Just trembling on the edge.

His dick is thick and throbbing, glistening from root to tip in her slick. Her walls gripped him so tight he could barely breathe, his control stretched to the edge of breaking.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “You grippin’ me good and tight.”

Violet arched beneath him, her thighs falling wider, chest heaving. Her hands dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin.

“I don’t want you to slip out,” she gasped, “I want…I want you to stay inside me. Live there.”

“Live in this sweet little pussy?”

“Yes…mmmm—”

Smoke let out a sound that was half growl, half prayer.

Then he shifted his hips—not thrusting in, not pulling out, just a slow, controlled sway from side to side, grinding his dick through her heat like he was trying to carve space inside her that didn’t exist. Rocking her hips.

Her eyes flew wide. Her breath caught.

“Oh—fuck—”

“You feel that?” he moaned out, staring down at where they were joined, “That stretch?”

He watched it happen—watched how her folds kissed every inch of him half way in, slick and swollen, gripping his dick like velvet-lined hunger. The way she opened, stretched around his girth, the raw, glistening pink of her taking him with effort, with ache.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he groaned, voice low and filthy, “Can’t even take me yet, and she’s still tryna pull me in deeper.”

He rocked his hips again—left, then right—slow, obscene pressure.

Violet whimpered, biting her lip so hard her lip trembled.

Her pussy pulsed, clenching tight every time he moved like that, and he watched it happen, mesmerized.

“I could come just from this,” he muttered, “Just watchin’ your pussy swallow me like she don’t know whether to stretch wider or suck me deeper.”

“Don’t stop,” Violet begged, “It’s so full—I feel you everywhere.”

He leaned in, mouth at her ear.

“You like the stretch, baby?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

“Then take it.”

His hand gripped the underside of her thigh, lifting it higher, angling her open even more.

And still—he didn’t push deeper.

He just kept grinding. Swaying. Teasing. Torturing. Stretching the tension. Making her wetter. Filthier. Letting that big dick move inside her like a slow burn, wide and thick, dragging over her walls from side to side until she was shaking, writhing, helpless and dripping.

Her whole body lit up. Her head dropped back against the drapes.

“I feel every ridge of you,” she cried, hiccuped, “I can feel the veins. It’s—God, it’s so much—”

Smoke looked down again, watching himself buried in her halfway—her lips stretched wide around the base of his shaft, her slick smeared over his thighs.

“Look at what you fuckin’ doin’ to me,” he rasped, eyes blown, “Look how soaked you are. You’re fuckin’ drenchin’ me, baby.”

Violet reached down with one hand, touched the base of his dick where her body stretched around him, fingers trembling as she felt the obscene wetness there.

“I want all of it,” she whispered, “Now. I want to feel every inch stretch me open.”

Smoke stilled. His body shook.

“You sure, baby? This pussy too tight. You sure you can handle it?”

Her voice was soft, wrecked, completely undone.

“Ruin me.” She begged.

Smoke’s body was tight as wire, thighs trembling where they pressed to hers. His dick throbbed—half buried, thick and twitching inside her, coated in her slick. Violet lay beneath him—open, trembling, flushed with need. Her mask still framed her eyes, but he could see everything: her want, her surrender, her need for more.

“Ruin me,” she’d begged with a shaky voice.

And Smoke—bare, soaked in sweat, jaw clenched so tight it ached—finally gave in.

“Hold on,” he growled, low and hoarse, mouth at her ear, “’Cause I’m not stoppin’ this time.”

He braced his hands to either side of her, locked his eyes on her face—and pushed.

Inch by inch.

Deep.

Stretching.

Thick.

The sound was obscene—a wet, slick drag of dick sinking into tight, velvet heat, the slap of her slick against his hips as her pussy gave way, struggling to take the rest of him.

“Oh—fuckkkk—” she cried, legs shaking, body arching beneath him, “You’re—oh my God—you’re so deep—”

Her pussy fluttered around him, stretching slow, burning, the walls clenching, dragging over every ridge and vein as he sank deeper.

“FFFFUCCCCKKK,” Smoke breathed, sweat sliding down his chest, watching as his dick disappeared inside her, “You feel like silk soaked in honey. Like heaven’s got a tight little pussy just for me.”

Her nails dug into his back, hips bucking instinctively, trying to take more—wanting the pressure, the fullness.

“You stretchin’ so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, “Takin’ me inch by inch like this pussy was made for it. Gahdamn…”

She was gasping, voice breaking.

“It’s so thick…it’s so much—”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, “That’s it. Just like that. Let me all the way in. All the way…just like that…uhuh…good girl…”

He pulled back slightly, then rolled his hips forward again—deep, steady pressure, working her open.

The sound—wet, filthy, rhythmic—echoed in the moon -lit room, layered with her soft, broken moans and the slide of skin on velvet.

Another inch.

Another stretch.

He grunted when her pussy clenched tight again—trying to push him out and pull him in at the same time.

“You milkin’ me, baby. You even know what you doin’ to me right now?”

She whimpered, her heels digging into his back.

“S–Smoke,” she begged, “Don’t stop till you’re all the way in.”

He grabbed her thigh, opened her just a little more, and pushed—deep, all the way, until his hips met the soft cradle of hers and they both groaned like something sacred just broke.

Her walls stretched to their limit, fluttering around the base of his dick, soaked and swollen.

“Shiiiitttt.”

Smoke’s voice cracked.

He was fully inside her now—root-deep, dick buried to the hilt, surrounded by heat and wetness so tight he couldn’t move without coming undone.

“You feel that?” he gasped, chest pressed to hers, every muscle in his body trembling, “I’m all the way in. Every. Fuckin’. Inch. Deep baby.”

Violet’s mouth dropped open.

Smoke stared down at their conjoined bodies. He shook his head at the sight. She felt split wide, gloriously full, every nerve between her hips alive with ache and bliss. The stretch made her body quake—but it was perfect.

“I can feel you…everywhere,” she whispered, “So deep—too deep—”

He kissed her hard. Tongue deep, rough, teeth dragging her bottom lip.

“No such thing, baby,” he growled, “You mine. You take all of me.”

That dick was all the way in—thick, deep, pulsing inside Violet’s soaked, stretched heat. Her walls clutched him like she never wanted to let go, fluttering around him, wet and swollen and trembling. He didn’t move at first. He just held there, buried in the tightest, sweetest, slickest place he’d ever felt, sweat dripping from his brow to her chest.

Violet whimpered beneath him, her body quaking, arms wrapped around his back.

Smoke pulled back—slow, deliberate—until just the tip of his dick stayed inside.

Shlk…shlk…shlk…

The sound of her wetness parting around him made his whole body jerk.

Then he pushed back in.

One, long stroke.

From tip to base.

Shhhhlllk—THMP.

Violet cried out, high and helpless.

“Ahhh—fuck!”

Her pussy stretched and sucked around him, the tight pull of her walls fluttering with each inch he fed her. It pulled so tight her hips drew up each time he would pull back to the tip. Like she wanted to glue his dick to her aching walls.

Smoke braced himself on his knees, then reached down, hooked both her legs, and pressed her thighs back—folding her open.

“Yeah,” he growled, voice gravel and heat, “That’s it, baby. Let me open you wide. Feel that wet ass pussy.”

He slid her knees back, propped them on the shelf of his shoulders, hands gripping the backs to keep her pinned. Her ass tilted up. Her pussy tilted back.

Everything was exposed. Everything was his.

He looked down at where they were joined—his thick dick gliding into her, coated in slick, her folds stretched wide around his base, her clit flushed and swollen, barely untouched.

Smoke pulled out with a gushy sound and Violet whimpered. He stared at her pussy and put his mouth on her so fast Violet didn’t see it coming. Her head was tilted just enough to catch her reflection in the tall gilded mirror across the room. From this angle, she could see everything—the arch of her spine, the tremble in her belly, the way his head dipped between her thighs like he was starving.

When Smoke kissed her there, her moan ripped loose, raw and aching.

“Ahh—S-Smoke…”

He didn’t answer with words. Just a growl deep in his chest, continuous slurps, and a firmer grip on her thighs. He licked slow—luxurious, filthy—dragging his mouth in circles, tasting her like she was something forbidden and holy.

Schlllck…mmhh…

The sounds alone made her legs shake. Violet was the wettest she’d ever been. Smoke couldn’t help himself. He had to taste what he was responsible for. She watched through the mirror, watched the way her body writhed, the way his shoulders moved with every devouring stroke. His dark head moved slow and steady between her legs, and the contrast of her soft thighs around his jaw made her whimper.

“You see how pretty you look?” he rasped between open–mouthed kisses, glancing up at her with his mouth slick and eyes heavy, “Drippin’ all over my tongue?”

“F-fuck—please…please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He sucked her clit just right, tongue lapping, mouth wet and open and relentless. Her hands flew to his head, pulling him in, needing more. Her hips bucked but he held her down, his hands like shackles, steady and sure.

In the mirror, she saw her own mouth fall open, her body start to shake. Her eyes glossed over and begging to leak tears. The rhythm below them rose with her pulse—horns wailing, bass thumping, the whole house echoing sin. But all Violet could hear was the slick suck of his mouth and the trembling sobs falling from her lips.

“Ahhhhnn—Smoke—Smoke—I—”

She came hard, thighs clamping, toes curling, back arching off the velvet and satin. And Smoke—greedy, growling—held her through it, still tasting, still devouring, pulling every last tremor from her with slow, devastating precision.

“That’s it, baby. Ride it. Ride this tongue for me…let it happen.”

Violet broke. Sweet moans and cries. And just what he wanted—more mess.

Smoke lifted his head, lips wet and swollen from eating her pussy good. He grabbed his big dick in his fist, tapped her pussy, then glided back in to the base. All the way in. Deep. Violet was frozen with her mouth hanging open.

“Look at you,” he groaned, “You takin’ it all, baby? You feel how deep I am? All in you?”

Violet moaned again, higher this time, voice breaking on each syllable.

“Ah—ah—ahhhhnn…”

“Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you moan,” he grunted, sliding out again.

Pulled out to the tip again.

Then surged forward.

Shhlk… shhhlk…THMP.

Another full stroke. Measured. Deep. Controlled. His hips rolled, grinding at the bottom, pressing his dick into places she hadn’t even known she had.

“You love this daddy dick, don’t you?” he growled, voice ragged as his thrusts came slow but punishing, “Huh? You love this big boy stretchin’ this tight little pussy out?”

Violet couldn’t answer. Her head fell back. Her hands grabbed at the fabric. Her mouth hung open as she moaned, sobbed, breathed his name like gospel.

“Mmmnnnh—f-fuck—Smoke—yes—”

“Yeah, you love it,” he hissed, bending lower, keeping her thighs high on his shoulders, pressing his dick even deeper, “Listen to you. So fuckin’ wet. That pussy talkin’ to me, baby. Finally in this pussy. Best pussy I ever had.”

Shhlk…shhlk…shhhhlick—

The sound was filthy. Wet. Loud. Like her body was eating his dick.

“You a big girl now, ain’t you?” he grinned, voice smug and savage, “Look at you, takin’ it all like a good fuckin’ woman.”

She choked on her moan, “Yes—oh God, yes—”

“That’s it,” he growled, thrusting slow again, thick shaft dragging against every inch of her stretched walls, “You mine, girl. This is just the start, baby. This pussy? This heat? That little ribbon around your throat? All mine.”

He leaned down and bit her shoulder. Hard enough to make her gasp. His hips never stopped moving—slow, deep, thick strokes that made the floorboards creak.

“This is just night one. I ain’t leavin’ you the same. You understand me?” He spoke with that Mississippi drawl that drove her crazy.

Violet clung to him. Whimpering. Gasping. Taking every drop of him like she was born to.

“You fuckin’ hear me?” He dragged in and out of her, “Violet I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” she breathed, “Take me…keep me…make me yours.”

Smoke’s eyes burned. His body shook.

And he fucked her like she already was.

That big dick drove into her with measured force, slow but deep, thick strokes that dragged against her walls and made her shake with every inch. Violet peeked at her reflection and couldn’t believe what she saw. Smoke was up on his hands, toes planted into the floor, strong, thick, powerful body driving downward and upward above her little frame. Delicate against steel.

Shlk…shlk…shhhhlick—THMP.

He held her thighs high over his shoulders, chest pressed to her legs, his hips grinding low with wet, dirty rhythm. Violet’s body was open, trembling, flushed dark across her chest and throat.

Her eyes—behind the sheer pearl mask—were locked on his.

She was close.

Smoke saw it.

Her lips parted in a shaky gasp. Her pupils blown wide. Her moans hitched with every thrust like she couldn’t hold them in anymore. She clawed at the fabric.

“Ahh—ahh—ahhh—AHHH—ahhhn—”

Her whimpers were soft, breathless, rising.

Smoke didn’t stop.

He leaned in, fucked her deeper, hips rolling hard, grinding at the end of each thrust like he was trying to brand her with the shape of him.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead nearly touching hers, “That buildin’ up inside you? That tight little quake startin’ right here—”

He brought a hand between them, pressed two fingers to her clit, circling slow as his dick stayed buried deep.

She gasped—loud and sharp.

“Ahhh—fuck—Smoke—”

“There she is,” he groaned, “That’s it, baby. That’s your climax comin’ for you. You feel it, don’t you? Let her out. It’s heavy ain’t it, baby?”

She nodded, mouth open, eyes glassy. Her hands clawed at his back, nails scraping sweat-slick skin.

“I—ah—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, fucking her through the rise, that good dick dragging, pushing, claiming, “You gon’ cum all over this dick. I want you to let go. I wanna feel it. Give it to me, baby. Please? For daddy?”

The begging. The quiver in his voice.

Her breath caught. Her whole body tightened. Her thighs shook on his shoulders.

“Ahh—ahhhhn—fuuuuck—”

“Come on, Violet. Let me feel it. Let me milk it, baby.”

Her eyes snapped open—locked on his.

Then she broke.

“Oh—Smoke—SMOKE—ahhh—fuuuuhhhck—!”

Her climax ripped through her like lightning in her spine—hot, deep, blinding. Her walls clenched, pulsed, squeezed around his dick like her pussy couldn’t decide whether to keep him or push him out. Slick flooded between them, wetting his thighs, coating him even more.

Shhhhhlick…shlk—shlk—shlk—

“Goddamn,” he growled, “You feel that? You hear that, baby? Fuck…wet this dick up.”

He never stopped moving—fucking her through it, dick sliding, grinding, making her feel every second of the release.

“You drippin’ for me. So wet, it’s drippin’ down my balls.”

She whimpered through her cries—“uh—ah—uhnnn—”—her whole body trembling, fingers gripping his shoulders like she might fly apart without him.

He kissed her. Hard. Filthy. Wet. Then pulled back to watch her face.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with awe, “Takin’ every inch and cummin’ ‘round me like this’s your fuckin’ purpose.”

“Y-You—” she gasped, “You made me—I’ve never—fuck—”

“You did it, baby,” he whispered, hips still rolling, dragging through her sensitive, soaked center, “You mine. All fuckin’ mine. This what daddy givin’ you. Anytime you want it baby.”

She moaned again, wrecked, slick pouring down between her thighs, her pussy fluttering with the last aftershocks.

Smoke grunted. His body trembled.

He was close.

But he wasn’t done yet.

Smoke’s chest heaved as he hovered above her, his dick still buried to the hilt in her soaked, fluttering heat. Violet lay beneath him, breathless, trembling, her release still pulsing around him in slow aftershocks.

He watched her—watched the way her sweat-beaded skin glowed, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her mouth stayed open like a question he couldn’t stop answering.

But then—

He pulled back.

Slow.

Obscene.

Shhhhhlk—shlk—slk—

Violet whimpered at the sudden loss, her pussy twitching, clenching at the absence of him, juices spilling from her stretched opening as his dick slid out glistening, coated in slick and cream.

“Fuck,” Smoke whispered, eyes locked on the sight between her thighs, “Look at that. Look.”

He didn’t touch her right away. Just knelt there, breathing hard, staring at her pussy.

“Goddamn, baby…I stretched you wide open. You see this mess?”

Her folds were swollen, her pussy glistening, the pink of her insides just barely visible where he’d split her so slow and deep. He ran two fingers up her slit—gentle, but filthy—spreading her lips apart so he could see.

“Pussy’s still pulsin’,” he spoke, eyes glassy, in a trance, “Still fuckin’ twitchin’ like she misses me already.”

Then—he started talking to it.

“You miss that dick, huh? Couldn’t wait to wrap around me. Grippin’ me like you were scared I’d pull out and leave you empty. But not you, nah. You took it like a big girl. You soaked me, didn’t you?”

Violet whimpered, her hand covering her mouth, watching him between her legs—watching him talk to her pussy like it was sacred.

Smoke kissed her thigh. Then leaned in.

Spread her open again with his thumbs, slow, adoring.

“Look how pretty you are, baby. Look how wet you made my dick.”

He looked down at himself—his shaft slick, shiny with her arousal, twitching, the head flushed and veins raised from how hard he still was.

Violet licked her lips. Her eyes darkened.

“I wanna taste it,” she whispered, “I wanna taste what you did to me.”

Smoke’s breath caught.

“What’d you say?”

She sat up slowly, eyes locked on his big dick. Violet reached out with one delicate, trembling hand and wrapped her fingers around the base.

“I wanna suck my mess off your dick,” she said, bold and breathless, “I want it in my mouth.”

Smoke groaned—low, helpless.

“Fuckin’ hell, Violet—”

She didn’t wait. She licked up the underside first, tongue flat, dragging through the slick of her own juices that still coated him.

“Mmm…”

She hummed—soft and sinful—as she tasted herself, his salt, their heat.

Then she wrapped her lips around the head—slow, tight, swirling her tongue over the sensitive ridge.

“Ah—shit—” Smoke’s hands flew into her hair, holding but not forcing, watching his dick disappear into that sweet mouth inch by inch.

“You nasty little angel,” he breathed, “Takin’ your own cum off my dick like it’s dessert.”

Violet moaned around him—Mmmnnnnh—eyes locked on his, throat swallowing him deeper. She sucked slow, wet, her tongue sliding under the shaft, collecting every drop of their filth.

Slrk…slrp…slrrrk—

“Look at you,” he groaned, his hips twitching, barely holding on, “Look how fuckin’ filthy you are for me.”

She pulled back with a pop, spit glistening on her lips.

“I’d do it again,” she whispered, “I’d let you ruin me again just to taste it after.”

Smoke stood motionless, jaw tight, every muscle trembling as Violet sucked him slow. Her mouth was hot—wet, velvety, her lips stretched around the head of his dick, cheeks hollowing with every draw.

Slrp…slrrrk…shlk…

The sounds echoed in the hush of the attic, filthy and rhythmic, the only thing louder than her mouth was the sound of his breath—shaky, caught between groans and restraint.

She took her time.

She licked up the underside with deliberate strokes.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, then kissed it like it was sacred.

And the whole time, her eyes stayed on his.

Soft. Blazing. Wrecked.

Smoke’s hands threaded through her hair, not pushing, just holding, worshipping.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasped, “You were made for this.”

She pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot, lips slick with spit and arousal.

“I want you to remember this—my mouth on you, your taste on my tongue, me sucking the mess we made like I was starved for it.”

His dick jumped in her hand.

She smiled, then kissed the flushed head again—soft, like an apology for how dirty she sounded.

Smoke’s chest rose and fell in uneven waves.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep talkin’ like that,” he warned, voice breaking, “You want me to cum, you better be sure. ‘Cause I’m not gentle when I do.”

Violet licked the drop of precum from his slit and moaned like it was honey.

“I don’t want gentle,” she whispered, “I want truth.”

Smoke’s grip on her hair tightened—just a little.

But he didn’t thrust.

He didn’t force.

He watched her.

Watched her mouth.

Watched the slick on her chin.

Watched her tongue curl around the underside of his shaft like it belonged there. The candlelight flickered across her cheeks, her lashes, the ribbon still tied at her throat. Her breasts rose and fell with each slow breath, each wet suck, each swirl of her tongue as she licked the base and worked her way back up.

Slrp…slrk…slrp…

And all Smoke could do was let it happen.

Let it burn.

Let her own him.

His fingers flexed in her hair.

His thighs tensed.

His eyes dropped to her mouth again—that sweet, sinful mouth wrapped around his dick.

And he groaned.

“Fuck…Violet…you gonna be the death of me.”

Violet had Smoke’s dick in her mouth—slick, deep, wet—and he was barely standing.

He braced one hand on his thigh, the other threaded in her hair, his chest heaving like he’d run through a thunderstorm and liked it.

“Mmmmff—fuck.”

The groan cracked out of him—low, rough, long, like it was torn from somewhere deep. His jaw slackened. His thighs twitched.

“Shit…shit, babyyyy—”

Her mouth was heaven.

Her lips sealed tight around him. Her tongue worked the underside in slow, practiced swirls, then flattened, dragging from base to tip in a long, soaking stroke.

Sllllrp…slrk…slrp…

Violet pulled back just enough to breathe—spit and her slick glistening on her lips—and kissed the head of his precious, delicious dick like it was beloved. Then she looked up, eyes glowing behind the mask, and said, breathless

“I practiced for you.”

Smoke blinked, dazed.

“What…?”

She smiled. Bold. Sweet. Sinful.

“I started practicing. With a cucumber. Testing how deep I could take it. Seeing how long I could hold it. So I could suck you good.”

Smoke made a sound that wasn’t human—a broken moan wrapped in a curse, his knees nearly buckling.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

He looked down at her like she was a miracle soaked in sin.

“You—fuck—”

Words failed him.

She giggled, soft and wicked, and took him back into her mouth—slow, tight, wet. Her lips stretched. Her cheeks hollowed. She eased down, inch by inch, until the head nudged the back of her throat.

Smoke’s moan was raw, open, dragged from the pit of his stomach.

“Ohhhnn—fuck, Violet—don’t stop—don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

She moaned around him—Mmmnnnnnh—her throat fluttering as she swallowed, pulling him deeper, then easing back, letting spit trail from her lips to his shaft.

Then—soft kisses.

One at the base.

One just beneath the crown.

A long, hot lick up the side, followed by a swirling stroke of her tongue around the slit.

He was twitching in her hand, hard as a brick, dick flushed and glistening.

“Does it feel good?” she whispered, teasing the head with gentle flicks of her tongue.

Smoke nodded, wordless.

His mouth parted like he wanted to answer—but all that came out was another guttural moan.

“Mmmfff… nnnh—god damn.”

She sucked again—just the head this time. Slow, steady pulses of suction while she stroked the shaft with her hand.

Slrp. Slrrrk. Slk…slrp—

“I wanted to be good for you,” she whispered against the crown, “I wanted this mouth to be your favorite place to cum.”

“It is,” he choked, “It fucking is, baby—don’t stop—please—”

His voice cracked. His abs clenched. His dick twitched against her tongue.

And she kept going.

Licking.

Sucking.

Swallowing him like she owned him.

Smoke couldn’t breathe.

Violet was sucking him like she was born for it—tight, wet, perfect—her hand stroking where her mouth couldn’t reach, her tongue swirling over the head like she knew exactly where it hurt the most.

And he was shaking.

“Shit—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

She moaned around his dick—mmmnnnnh—and that was it. That was fucking it.

Smoke’s body snapped forward, hips jerking hard. His head dropped back with a guttural, open-throated groan—deep, loud, wrecked.

“Fuuuuhhck—Violet—ahhh—shit—I’m cumin’, baby—fuck—I’m cumin’—”

And he did.

Smoke was wrecked. His big dick pulsed hard in her mouth, thick spurts of hot cum spilling across her tongue, deep, sudden, relentless. His thighs flexed. His abs clenched. His whole body twitched as the orgasm ripped through him—raw, full-body, no holding back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasped, hips still rocking, chasing the last of it.

And Violet?

She took it all.

Swallowed every drop like it was a secret made just for her. Her lips stayed wrapped tight around him, her tongue licking gently, soothing, even as he twitched from the sensitivity.

Slrp…slk…mmmnnh…

She pulled off slowly, letting the tip slide from her mouth with a soft, wet pop.

Smoke stood above her—wrecked, panting, sweat running down his chest, his dick softening against his thigh, glistening from her mouth and his release.

Violet licked the corner of her lips.

Then looked up at him.

“Told you I’d be good for you.”

Smoke dropped to his knees in front of her—still gasping, still reeling.

He cupped her jaw, kissed her—deep, slow, tasting himself on her tongue, moaning into her mouth like he was still coming.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and full of awe, “You just—Jesus, Violet—you just broke me.”

She smiled against his lips.

“Good.”

Smoke knelt in front of her, hands on either side of her face, thumbs brushing gently beneath her mask. His breath had started to settle, but his body was still warm, flushed from release. His dick—softening now—rested against his thigh, still slick with the memory of her mouth.

Violet’s lips were swollen. Her chin wet with spit. Her skin still pulsed with heat, glowing from what she’d just done. And she was watching him like she still hadn’t had enough.

Smoke cupped her cheek, stroked her jaw with his knuckles, slow and sweet. His voice dropped into something deep—warm, molten.

“You took me so good, baby…” he whispered, “Mouth soft as sin. Fuckin’ ruined me.”

Violet leaned into the praise—eyes fluttering, hips shifting, thighs pressing together. Her body was still buzzing. Her pussy was wet, sensitive, still open from earlier. She could feel it—the hollow ache of being empty again.

And Smoke could see it.

He watched the way her mouth opened slightly, how her lashes fluttered, how her thighs squeezed.

“What is it, sugar?” he whispered, brushing a thumb over her kiss-bruised bottom lip, “You want somethin’ else?”

She bit her lip—slow, thoughtful—and nodded.

“Tell me.”

Her voice came quiet. Shy. But bold beneath the softness.

“Can I…ride you?”

Smoke blinked, caught between surprise and instant arousal.

She looked down. Then back up at him, cheeks flushed.

“I wanna feel it. I wanna be on top. I wanna…watch your face when I take you in.”

Smoke let out a low, stunned groan. His dick, still wet and sticky against his thigh, twitched.

“You wanna ride this dick?” he questioned, voice thickening again, “You think you can handle that after the way I just split you open?”

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, breath hot against his cheek.

“I can take it. I want to. I want to sit on it slow…make you feel all of me.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye—hungry, worshiping.

“Shit, baby…you askin’ me like that, I’ll let you ride me all night.”

Smoke lay back against the drapes, sweat cooling on his chest, his body still thick with heat, dick hardening again under Violet’s gaze.

She climbed over him slowly—naked, glowing. Her thighs trembled with anticipation, not fear. Her breath was quick. Her eyes locked on his. And her pussy—wet, swollen, still stretched from earlier—throbbed with the need to be filled again.

“Come on, baby,” he spoke, voice deep and wrecked. “Climb on. Take what you want.”

She reached for his dick, stroked it gently—still slick, hardening fast beneath her hand—and guided the head to her opening.

Smoke groaned the moment he felt her heat kiss the tip.

“Shit…”

Violet sank down—slow, careful, inches at a time—her brows furrowing as she adjusted to his size all over again.

“Ohhh—ahhh—Smoke—”

He watched her the entire way down, eyes glued to where their bodies met, where her folds spread around his dick, inch by inch.

“You got it, sweet girl,” he rasped, voice thick with worship, “You can take it. You were made to take it.”

Her hands came to his chest to brace herself—fingers splayed, nails grazing sweat-slick muscle as she settled further down.

Her thighs trembled.

Her lips parted.

Her head dropped back with a gasp as the stretch bloomed deep.

“Ah—ahh—so big—so full—daddy it’s big in my pussy.”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, “You feel that pressure in your belly? That’s me.”

She bottomed out slowly, inch by trembling inch, until her ass met his hips and her breath broke into a shaky, wrecked moan.

Smoke could barely breathe.

Violet on top of him was a fucking vision.

Her body was soft, full, and glowing—hips plush, breasts swaying. In contrast, his frame beneath her was hard, scarred, dark with sweat and muscle. She looked small, but powerful—glowing, feminine, a goddess in bloom with a big dick buried to the hilt inside her.

“Look at you,” he whispered, hands running up her sides, “Takin’ me all the way, nice and deep. Good girl. Remember how scared you looked when you saw me for the first time? Now look at you, sittin’ on it. Mmm…”

She started to rock her hips, tentative at first.

Up.

Down.

A slow, wet grind, her pussy hugging his length with every drag.

Shlk…slrp…shhhlick.

Violet found her rhythm—hips circling, rolling, bouncing just enough to make her breasts sway. The friction built, deeper each time, the sounds of their bodies filthy, beautiful, perfect.

“Oh—ohh—Smoke—it’s so—full, I can feel all of it—”

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, eyes wild, “That’s my girl. Ridin’ it like it’s yours. Go from bottom to tip, honey.”

He sat up slightly, mouth at her collarbone, one hand cradling the back of her neck. The other reached up and wrapped lightly at her throat.

“Go on,” he growled, “That’s mine now.”

She moaned—high, desperate—and ground down hard, her walls clenching around him.

“Shit—you want somethin’ in your mouth?” he asked, voice hoarse and thick.

She nodded.

He pressed two fingers to her lips. She opened obediently, took them in, sucked slow, tongue swirling around the knuckles as her hips kept grinding down on his dick.

“Mmmnnnh…” her moan vibrated against his fingers, eyes rolling back.

“Good girl,” he growled, “Keep ridin’. Let me feel that sweet pussy melt all over me.”

Her thighs slapped softly against his. Her ass bounced in slow rhythm. Their joined bodies were a mess of slick, sweat, and sex.

She was gorgeous.

She was filthy.

She was in control.

And Smoke watched her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.

Violet was moving now—hips rolling in slow, syrupy strokes, taking every inch of Smoke’s dick deep inside her. Her thighs burned, her skin glowed, and her mouth hung open in pleasure. Sweat beaded at the curve of her lower back.

Smoke looked up at her—wrecked, mesmerized, worshipful.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, “You’re fuckin’ art.”

Then—he reached up.

One broad, rough hand wrapped around her throat.

Not tight.

Not choking.

Just claiming.

His fingers spread across the sides of her neck, thumb resting just beneath her jaw, the pressure present, heavy enough to send a jolt of awareness through her.

Violet gasped—a high, breathy sound—and her eyes flew open behind the mask.

Her pussy clenched down hard around him.

Smoke felt it.

“Ohhh yeah,” he groaned, “You like that, don’t you? You like ridin’ with my hand right here—”

His grip stayed loose, but the weight of it made her tremble. She ground down harder, rolling her hips in tight circles.

“Mmmnh—uhhh,” she moaned, head tipping back into his palm.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “My sweet girl ridin’ like a good little slut.”

Her pussy fluttered again at the words, slick dripping down where they were joined.

And then—

SMACK.

His palm landed on her ass—not hard, but sharp enough to jolt her spine, to send heat blooming where flesh met flesh.

The sound cracked through the air.

THWAP.

Violet whined—“Ahhh—!”—more shock than pain, hips jerking forward as her pussy tightened around him.

Her thighs trembled. Her rhythm stuttered for half a second.

Smoke smirked, eyes hooded, hand still at her throat.

“You feel that, baby?” he rasped, “That sting in that ass? That stretch in your pussy? That’s me. That’s daddy.”

Violet whimpered, riding harder now, more desperate.

“Mmmnnnnh…yes…” she moaned, her hands sliding down his chest to brace again, “I need it—God, I need all of it—”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, “So good. So filthy. Drippin’ all over me and beggin’ for more.”

His other hand cupped her ass cheek, fingers splayed wide, kneading the flesh he’d just smacked.

“You want me to slap it again, baby?” he asked, voice low and hot, “Or you want me to grip up your throat next?”

Violet’s pussy clamped, a broken sob catching in her chest.

“Whatever you want—” she gasped, “Just don’t stop.”

Smoke’s hand stayed loose around Violet’s throat, dick buried deep inside her as she rocked and rolled above him—slick, full, beautiful.

But he wanted more.

Not just to feel her.

He wanted to see her.

“Turn for me,” he growled, breath hot against her chest, “Just a little. Right there—curve your body to the side.”

Violet blinked, dazed, mouth parted, hips still moving.

“What…?”

“Don’t stop,” he said, “Just lean. Curve that pretty body—yeah, like that.”

Her spine arched, and she turned her upper body slightly—off balance at first, but still grinding. One knee still braced beside his hip, the other shifted back to help her balance as she found the angle.

Across the attic the ornate gilded mirror stood angled in the flickering glow. Smoke could now see the full sweep of her body.

Her back arched in motion.

The bounce of her ass as she rode him.

The way her wet pussy spread open and swallowed his fat dick.

Fat brown pole slicked with cum and veined.

The ripple of her thighs.

“Holy fuck.”

The sight of it shattered him.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on the reflection, “Look at that. Look at how that pussy stretch for me. Stretchin’ wide around this pole.”

Violet moaned, her cheeks flushed even darker, her eyes fluttering as she peeked toward the mirror.

“You see that, baby?” Smoke said, voice going low and filthy, “You see how nasty you look takin’ me like that? You see how that pretty little cunt’s grippin’ my dick?”

Her breath hitched—“Ah—ahhh—Smoke—”

“You see how your juices drip down my fuckin’ balls every time you bounce? Say it.”

She nodded frantically, thighs quivering.

“I want you to say it,” he growled, “Use your words, sweet girl. Tell me what you see.”

Violet whimpered, voice barely holding.

“I see…I see my pussy stretched around your dick—drippin’—taking all of you—fuck—it looks so nasty, sir—so good—”

“Damn right it does.”

Then—THWAP

Smoke popped her ass again, a crisp smack that made her jerk and moan loud.

“Ahnn—fuck!”

“That’s what I like,” he grunted, “That bounce. That jiggle. That tight pussy getting fucked.”

He grabbed both cheeks then—kneading, squeezing, spreading her open just to watch her pussy drag up and down his dick in the mirror. He made her do it real slow, so he could watch her go all the way down until his balls touched her cheeks, then he made her go faster.

“You see that mess?” he growled, “That’s mine. You makin’ a show for me, ridin’ like the sweet little slut you are.”

She cried out again, hips moving faster, her pussy wetter now from the way he praised her. Smoke’s big hands on her little waist held her steady.

“Say it again,” he whispered, thumb grazing her bottom lip.

“I’m your sweet little slut.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your sweet—fucking—slut!”

He slapped her ass again. THWAP.

Then grabbed it, held her still, groaning from the feel of her tight, slick heat.

“That’s it, baby. That’s fuckin’ it.”

Her thighs burned, her breath came out in sharp gasps, and her pussy was so wet, so full, that the drag of Smoke’s cock inside her made her see stars.

She ground down in slow, tight circles, gripping him, riding deeper, her upper body turned just enough for both of them to watch the reflection—her ass bouncing, her slick dripping, his dick—thick, brown, veined—sliding in and out of her like velvet dragged through honey.

Smoke couldn’t stop watching.

“Look at how you take me,” he growled, eyes locked on the mirror, hand on her throat, “That pretty pussy’s fuckin’ grippin’ me—squeezin’ like you were made for this dick.”

“Smoke—” she gasped, thighs trembling harder now. “I—I’m—fuck—”

He slid the hand from her throat down between her legs, fingers rubbing tight, wet circles against her clit in perfect rhythm with her hips.

“Cum for me, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse and low, “Right here, ridin’ me like a good girl. Show me how that sweet pussy wanna be milked. Give this pussy what she been itchin’ for. There you go…spread that pussy…ride this dick, baby…that’s that pace I like…right up in it…”

Her mouth dropped open.

Her body started to shake—a tremble in her thighs, a flutter in her belly, a burn low and deep. Smoke met her strokes. Making sure she felt it. Making sure he gave her pussy what it wanted.

“I—ohh—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“You feel that heat crawlin’ up your spine?” he growled, fingers circling harder. “That ache in your clit? That swell inside your belly that says you ‘bout to lose it? Give daddy that pussy juice baby.”

“*Yes—oh God, yes—I’m cummin’—

“Then let it go.”

He thrust up into her hard—once—deep and full, burying his dick to the base as she cried out.

“*Ahhh—SMOKE—fuhhhk—I—Daddy—!”

Her body snapped, thighs locked tight around him, pussy clenching, rippling, gripping him so hard he moaned with her.

“Shiiit—that’s it, baby,” he groaned, hips still grinding as he felt her come undone, “That’s the way. Cum for me. Cream on this pole—just like that.”

Slllk…slrp…shhlk…

The sound of her soaked, spasming pussy riding him through the orgasm was filthy, intimate, perfect. Her slick coated them both, thick and wet, her pussy pulsing with every breathless cry.

“Nnnnh—uhhn—Smoke—ah—ah—”

She moaned into the crook of his neck, body trembling uncontrollably.

He held her.

Rocked her.

Rubbed her clit gently as the aftershocks made her shake.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you cum,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder, breath ragged, “This pussy’s mine forever, you know that?”

She nodded, voice barely a whisper.

“Yours.”

Smoke held Violet in his arms as she trembled, her pussy still twitching around him, wetness smeared across his thighs. Her breath was hot against his neck, her voice gone soft and shaky.

But he was still hard. Still buried inside her. Still hungry.

He pulled back slowly, lifting her chin to look at her.

“Violet,” he rasped, “I need to see you from behind.”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen.

“You want to…?”

He kissed her—slow, deep, soft.

“I want to claim you,” he said, voice hot at her ear, “Bend you forward, spread you wide, and slide back into that soaked little pussy.”

Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched. She remembered what Peaches had said one morning:

“That’s where you feel all of him. Deep. Like he’s tryin’ to get in your belly.”

“You nervous, baby?”

She nodded, lip caught between her teeth.

Smoke stroked her cheek, slow and soothing.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise. You’re still in control. I’m gonna make it feel so fuckin’ good,” then he spoke softly, “Will you let me put your body how I like it?”

Violet hesitated for just a second.

Then whispered, “Yes.”

Smoke kissed her hard, then shifted her gently—handling her like a treasure, not a toy. He turned her around on the floor hands guiding her hips, letting her settle onto all fours. Then he gripped her waist and slowly adjusted her.

“Belly down…good girl. Drop your chest a little more. Let that spine dip—yeah, just like that. That’s it.”

He stepped back for a beat and looked.

She was a vision—arched deep, spine curved, her back a smooth, glowing line that dipped into the plush swell of her ass. Her pussy glistened below, wet, open, and still twitching from her last orgasm.

Her thighs trembled with anticipation.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, running his hands over her hips, “You look like sin waitin’ to be devoured.”

He knelt behind her, one hand on her lower back, the other wrapping around the base of his dick. He rubbed the head along her slick folds—slow, teasing, filthy.

Shhhhhlk…shlk…slrp…

Her moan was breathless, almost frightened.

“Smoke…”

“I got you, baby,” he spoke, “Just feel it. Don’t think—feel.”

He slid the head in—barely, just enough to part her.

“Ahh—oh God—”

“Shhh, that’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on where she stretched open for him, “This angle hits deeper, I know. Let me in slow.”

He pushed forward another inch—thick, pressing, splitting her again with slow, claiming weight.

Her pussy gripped him tighter than before, the new angle pressing into her softest spots.

“*Ahhhnn—ah—*Smoke, I—” she gasped, fingers clutching the drapes.

He stilled.

“You okay?”

She nodded into the crook of her arm, voice trembling.

“It feels…bigger.”

“It is,” he rasped, “That pussy’s stretched wide open for me. You feel how deep I’m hittin’? That’s the kind of stretch that ruins other men for you.”

He pulled out halfway, then pushed in again—slow, steady, all the way to the base.

Shhhllk…THMP.

“Ohhh—” Violet moaned, her back arching deeper.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hands gripping her hips tight, “That’s how I like it—ass high, back bowed, takin’ this dick like a good fuckin’ girl.”

He leaned over her, kissed her spine, his breath fanning across her skin.

“You mine like this,” he whispered, “This pussy—my pussy—was made to be taken from behind.”

He grinded deep. Violet sobbed into her arm.

“Mmmmn—ah—ah—uhhnn—”

“Yeah, baby,” he growled, “You feel how I fill you? Feel that pressure in your belly? That’s me ownin’ it.”

He slapped her ass—not hard, just firm—THWAP—and gripped the cheek after, kneading it like he wanted to mold it to his palm.

Her moan was broken.

“Smoke—please—”

“You want it deeper?”

“Yes—”

“You want me to ruin you a little more?”

“Yes—please—take it.”

He pulled back—long, wet drag—then slammed forward.

SHHLK—THMP.

And kept going.

Smoke’s hips snapped forward again—louder this time.

SHHLK—THMP—shhlk—THMP.

Violet moaned into her arm, body arching and collapsing with every deep thrust. It was intense, but the more he did it…the more it felt good. Overwhelmingly good. Like she didn’t know what to do with her body.

Her ass—round, slick, reddened from his grip—ricocheted off his pelvis, the bounce rippling, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing like percussion beneath the music drifting up from the party downstairs.

A bawdy blues tune moaned through the floorboards—a woman’s voice dripping with want, backed by a piano and slow, heavy bass:

🎶 Told my man don’t be gentle, don’t be shy…

Slide it in deep ‘til I see the sky.

Took my sugar walls like a midnight sin—

Now he knockin’ ‘round my ribs just to crawl back in. 🎶

Smoke grunted through a deep thrust, his hands digging into her hips to hold her still as he buried himself balls-deep again. He scrunched his brows and stared down at Violet like he couldn’t believe this the type of pussy she was giving up.

SHHHLLK—THMP

“You hear that?” he groaned, “Even the music knows what I’m doin’ to you.”

Violet moaned, incoherent now, glistening, shaking, glowing under the candle’s flicker. Her arms collapsed at the elbows, chest dipping down into the drapes, back arched high, ass tilted up and spread wide for him.

She looked ruined—perfectly, beautifully ruined—and he couldn’t stop looking. Her head lolled to the side, mouth hanging open, and she started sucking on two of her fingers—middle and ring finger—mindlessly, desperate, sweet and filthy.

Smoke nearly lost it right there.

“Oh fuck, look at you…suckin’ on those fingers like I ain’t already feedin’ your pussy a whole meal.”

She whimpered around her fingers, back arching harder as she rocked back against him. Sucking on her fingers in a trance. The sight almost broke Smoke down.

“God damn, baby,” he growled, “You know what you look like right now?”

She didn’t answer—couldn’t—but her pussy twitched around him in response.

“Cross-eyed. Dumb from dick. Sweet little slut takin’ it so good her fuckin’ eyes won’t stay straight.”

He slapped her ass again—THWAP—then gripped the flesh in both hands, spreading her open, watching the way her slick little hole swallowed him.

Shlk—shhlllk—slrp—THMP.

“If only you could see how she clings to me,” he groaned, “So wet she sound like she beggin’ for more. You gettin’ used to it, pretty baby?”

Violet moaned around her fingers. Her thighs were shaking. Her slick was everywhere—on his dick, down his balls, smeared across her thighs.

He bent over her back, mouth at her ear. Then he pulled her up by one shoulder, and that made her spine curve deliciously.

“That’s ‘cause I’m fuckin’ you different now. This ain’t tender. This is mine. This is how I mark you.”

She cried out—high, shaky, desperate—fingers slipping along her tongue.

“Mmmn—uh—uh—Smoke—please—”

He licked a long, slow stripe up her spine and grunted, “Don’t worry, baby. I’m gonna fuck you through it.”

And he did.

Her moans had turned to cries, her thighs were trembling so hard Smoke had to grip her hips tighter just to keep her steady.

Every time he thrust, she jolted forward with a whimper. Violet looked back and locked eyes with Smoke. She chewed on that bottom lip, he reached down to rub his fingers into her slick spine.

THMP—shhlk—THMP—slrp—

The sounds were everywhere—slick, filthy, alive. Skin meeting skin, her soaked pussy slapping back against his hips, the wet grind of her body around him.

Smoke bent low over her, dick still driving deep, slow, devastating.

“Come on, baby,” he groaned, voice dark and hot against her neck, “Give it to me. I wanna feel this sweet pussy clench around me one more time.”

Violet whimpered, sucking her fingers harder now, mouth glazed with spit, eyes rolling up.

“I—ah—ahh—I can’t—*I’m—fuhhhck—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, “You got one more in you. One more for me. One more to show this pussy knows who it belongs to.”

His hand slid around her belly, found her clit, rubbed tight, slick, urgent circles just as he slammed deeper from behind.

SHHLK—THMP—shlk—shhhlick—

She sobbed into the velvet.

“Smoke—Smoke I’m gonna—oh God—”

“That’s it,” he panted, “That’s it, baby. Let go. Let me feel that pretty pussy cream my dick.”

She came hard.

Her body snapped into a quake—spine arched, toes curled, fingers tangled in the drapes. Her pussy clenched so tight around his dick he couldn’t move—velvet walls fluttering, gripping, milking him, slick pouring down her thighs.

“Ahhh—ahhhhhnn—nnnnnh—”

She choked on his name—“Smoke—Smoke—Smoke—”—as her orgasm ripped through her, raw and devastating.

Her whole body trembled beneath him, locked in wave after wave of pulsing heat.

Smoke lost it.

His voice cracked as he pushed deep, deep, buried to the hilt, and groaned so loud it shook his chest.

“Fuuuuuuck—Violet—I’m cummin’, baby—I’m fuckin’ cummin’—”

His big dick throbbed and released inside her—hot, thick, pouring into her in long, deep spurts—hips retracting as he released more onto her folds and the fabric beneath. He groaned with every pulse, hips grinding as he spilled into the tight clutch of her still-spasming pussy.

“Take it. Take every fuckin’ drop. This here mines. You fuckin’ hear me?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him as he pulsed and groaned, pressing kisses to her shoulder and neck.

The blues song below faded into a final cry of brass.

And the room went quiet except for their ragged breathing.

Their bodies were tangled. Slick. Shaking.

Filled.

And together.

Violet collapsed into the drapes, her body trembling, her breath catching in little sobs of release. Her legs refused to work. Her skin glistened with sweat. And her pussy—soaked, stretched, filled to overflowing—still pulsed gently around the weight of Smoke’s dick softening inside her.

He was still deep. Still holding her hips. Still breathing hard against her spine.

“Shhh,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to the dip between her shoulders, “I got you.”

His voice was rough, spent, but tender.

Smoke withdrew slowly—gently—one hand smoothing over her back as he pulled out with a soft, wet slide.

Shhhhlk…slrp…

Violet gasped, twitching at the loss, and a warm trickle of his release followed, dripping between her thighs onto the sheets below.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staring at the mess, “Look what we did.”

Then he moved—quick, careful, like her body was something precious that needed wrapping, not wiping away. He reached for a folded towel that had been placed by violet earlier, used it to gently clean the inside of her thighs, his cum, her slick, the stickiness between them.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, rubbing her calf.

Violet nodded, her voice a murmur.

“I’ve never…felt anything like that.”

Smoke smiled against her skin.

“Me neither.”

He gathered her up—lifted her, turned her, pulled her into his chest like he was folding her back into himself.

She curled into him without hesitation, bare and boneless. Her breath still trembled. Her thighs twitched against his. His arms wrapped around her middle. One hand cradled her jaw. The other rubbed slow circles on her lower back, grounding her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her temple, “You gave me everything. And you took it like a fuckin’ dream.”

Violet buried her face against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked again.

She nodded.

“Better than okay.”

He smiled.

They lay there for a while—limbs tangled, bodies warm, sheets damp, the slow rise and fall of their breathing syncing like waves in the dark.

Then Smoke whispered, like a secret just for her.

“Next time, I want you to ride me with the mask off. I wanna see every part of you when you cum. Wanna watch your eyes when you break.”

Violet looked up at him through her lashes, flushed and soft.

“Only if I get to tie you up next time.”

Smoke blinked, then laughed—low, hoarse, adoring.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, “You gon’ kill me.”

They lay tangled for a while, just breathing—bodies still slick with sweat and the fading pulse of pleasure. Violet dozed briefly, limbs boneless, cheek pressed to Smoke’s chest. He ran fingers through her damp hair, lips brushing her forehead, letting her rest in the silence between the music downstairs and the storm they’d just weathered together.

Eventually, he shifted beneath her, and spoke, “Come on, sugar. Let’s get you cleaned up before you melt into this floor.”

She stirred, soft and sleepy, lips brushing his skin, “You ruined me.”

He chuckled low, kissed the crown of her head, “Damn right I did.”

She swatted his chest weakly.

He dressed her slowly—gentle, loving, helping her into her dress, then tugged his shirt and pants back on without bothering to button it. Her mask still clung to her face, half askew, ribbon trailing.

He scooped her up bridal-style, arms strong beneath her legs and back.

“Gonna carry me?” she asked, blushing.

“Always.”

They left the attic loft quietly, stepping into the cool hallway beyond. The air was heavy with incense and smoke, the sound of low blues music still rising from the floorboards, dim now—slow, brassy, spent.

Violet’s room was further down the hall, the last door near the corner—secluded, tucked away.

Smoke shouldered it open with ease, stepping into the quiet dark and closing it behind them.

He carried her straight to the little washroom, where a deep clawfoot tub waited—already drawn earlier by one of the house girls at Violet’s request. Still warm. Still steaming. Rose petals floated lazily across the surface, and a lavender-salt scent clung to the air.

He set her down on the edge of the tub and undressed her slowly—untying the dress, letting it fall away. The white satin ribbon was the last thing he touched, fingers curling under it.

“Let me see you,” he said softly.

Violet nodded.

He pulled the bow loose, tugged the mask free—and saw her eyes fully for the first time tonight.

Soft. Wild. Glowing.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

A blush crept up her chest. She looked away, smiling shy.

He stepped out of his stacks, removed his shirt and climbed into the tub first, settling into the steaming water. Then he helped her in, pulling her into his lap.

She settled between his thighs, back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her belly beneath the water.

“You sore?” he asked, voice thick with tenderness.

“A little,” she spoke softly, “But it’s the good kind.”

He kissed the nape of her neck.

They sat for a while like that—warm, naked, silent—the water lapping gently at their skin, the world outside forgotten.

Smoke dipped a cloth into the water and brought it to her chest, dragging it slowly between her breasts, across her belly, between her thighs. He was gentle now, but still intentional—his touch a silent promise.

I’ll wreck you, and then I’ll hold you together.

“Never knew a girl who could ride it like that,” he murmured, teasing now, “Took me so deep I swear I saw stars.”

“You deserved it,” she whispered, leaning back against him,“I practiced, remember? All those times I rode your thigh.”

“And the way you sucked my dick,” he blew are out his mouth, “Baby…”

Violet giggled, “Thank you.”

He grinned, kissed her shoulder, “Might need to watch that sometime. You and that cucumber.”

She gasped, slapped water at him.

“Elijah!”

He laughed, arms tightening around her.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name. Not just Smoke. I want you to say Elijah.”

She tilted her head back and whispered it softly.

“Elijah.”

His breath caught. His grip around her waist pulsed.

“Yeah,” he said, “That’s the one.”

The bathwater had cooled some, but neither of them moved. Violet sat curled between his legs, back to his chest, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Elijah’s arms stayed wrapped around her middle, fingers laced softly over her navel, as if holding her was the only thing keeping him steady. The room glowed gold and low. Candlelight flickered against the tile walls. Outside, the blues had faded into silence.

Inside—only them.

Violet shifted a little, nestled closer, drawing in a long breath like she was trying to swallow something tight in her chest.

“Elijah…” she whispered, barely above the soft splash of water.

“Mm?” His chin brushed her temple.

She turned her face just slightly, enough for him to see her eyes—wide, vulnerable, glassy with tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

“Thank you.”

He stilled.

She swallowed, “For seeing me. For being patient. For… not taking it from me. For letting me choose when it was time.”

Her voice cracked a little, but she didn’t hide.

“I know I was ready,” she whispered, “But it still… mattered. More than I knew it would.”

Smoke’s chest rose under her spine. He held her tighter, one hand coming up to brush a damp curl from her cheek.

“Of course it mattered,” he said softly, “It’s yours, baby. It was always supposed to be yours to give—when, how, to who. All of it.”

Violet’s tears slipped loose then—soft, quiet, not from regret but from the way his words found the places she never let anyone see. She turned fully into his chest, arms wrapping around him, face buried in the hollow beneath his collarbone.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this,” she whispered, “Safe. Wanted. Chosen.”

Smoke pressed a kiss to her hair. His voice was low, adorning, “You’re more than wanted,” he said, “You’re seen. And every time you give me a piece of yourself, I’m gonna hold it like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.”

She sobbed once—quiet and grateful—then kissed his chest right above his heart.

“I felt everything,” she said with a soft spoken voice, Even when it hurt…it was good. You made it good.”

He closed his eyes, one hand stroking slow up and down her back.

“You made it good, baby,” he whispered, “You gave me something sacred. That’s yours. It always will be. But now it’s ours, too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wet skin to wet skin, heart to heart, until the tears dried and all that remained was the quiet, aching peace of being held, seen, and safe.

[thevelvetwhispers]

so....

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes it's time for another update babes.

i need to know how Amelia's guts are doing? 🙃

[theethighpriestess]

Where my Annie x Smoke girls??? Mike just blessed us on the Gram!

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @ghostfacekill-monger @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @theogbadbitch @thickemadame & anyone else I forgot to tag!

[notapradagurl7]

Miss Me?

Black Fem! Reader x Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Summary: After those years of hearing of his disappearance, your husband Elijah “Smoke” Moore had finally returned home, and you weren't up for a warm welcome. But he wanted to speak with you, and remind you that you're still his. Only his.

A/N: Here is something for our main man Smoke, 😩 enjoy!

Warnings: dirty talk, praise, possessive!Smoke, slight back talk, stubborn reader, fingering, cursing, unprotected sex, use of the n-word, established marriage, creampie, consensual intimacy, multiple orgasms, squirting.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @secret89sblog @ranikyani

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereina @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rose-bliss @wanderingreader1 @kindofaintrovert

—————-

The rich aroma of marinara sauce mingled with a variety of seasonings and spices, enveloping the medium-sized kitchen, the walls painted in sage green and pictures of you, and Smoke.

Your deep brown eyes were fixed on the bubbling pots simmering on the stovetop, the vibrant colors of the food enticing your senses. With a gentle turn of the knob, you watched as the blue flames flickered and gradually faded to embers, silencing the hissing gas.

You moved with quickness, pulling out an array of containers, each one filled with fragrant foods. Scooping out generous portions, you layered your plate with creamy mashed potatoes, perfectly cooked spaghetti, and sautéed cabbage with sausage that glistened with a hint of olive oil.

A low rumble from your stomach reminded you to eat, prompting a sigh of relief as you finally took your first bite. The flavors danced joyfully across your tongue, eliciting a soft hum of delight as each taste unfolded, cleaning your plate, after sipping your glass of water to quench your thirst.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the air, cutting through the meal you finished and breaking your concentration. You wiped the remnants of food from your lips.

You let out a resigned sigh, reluctantly leaving your plate behind as you hurried to the front door. Peering through the window, your heart raced as the amber-orange glow of the porch light illuminated a familiar silhouette, casting a soft shadow that stirred curiosity and cautious within you.

Smoke or as you called him, Elijah. That was who stood at your door, a shadowy presence in the twilight. Also known as your husband.

He was the twin brother of Elias “Stack” Moore, a pair known for their ruthless dealings in Chicago and New Orleans, everywhere.

Together, they undertook the grim tasks laid out for them by the notorious Al Capone, their hands stained with the dirt, and blood of their illicit trade.

In a moment that felt both tender and fleeting, he had expressed a desire to marry you before he vanished into the chaos of the city.

His promises dripped with hope as he claimed he would return to you, that the day would come when you would once again find him wrapped in your arms.

But as the shadows deepened and trouble began to swirl around them like a whirlwind, each passing day drew you further away from that heartfelt vow, leaving you to wonder if he would ever return.

Your family warned you that marrying him was a grave mistake; they insisted that being with Smoke only invited trouble.

Yet, despite their concerns, your love for him and his love for you ran deep—deeper than you could articulate. Now that he was finally back home after those long years, everything felt different.

With a sigh of disappointment, you shook your head. “What the hell does this nigga want?”

You knew you'd regret this, at least a little. You were still his wife, and he was still your husband.

Turning the brass knob, you swung the door open. Your gaze fell upon the man in his gray suit, blue tie, and the hat he had removed. His brown eyes met yours, brimming with raw emotion—love, longing, and a hint of fear.

“So, you’re back?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, skepticism lacing your voice.

His expression softened momentarily before he composed himself, gripping his hat tightly. “Yeah, I’m home, back wit’chu. Just like I promised, baby,” he said, his tone laced with seriousness and tenderness, each word resonating with sincerity.

Elijah stepped into the house, and you quickly closed and locked the door behind him. The way he said “baby” sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a wave of desire within you. How could you feel this way at such a moment?

The scent of the meals you cooked filled his nostrils, his stomach rumbled as his tongue glided through his lip. “What’chu cookin’ tonight? My favorite?” he teased, smirking at you.

You should have been angry with him; he was at home, but he might have been driving for work, putting in long hours until his hands hurt and his body was exhausted. Smoke couldn't wait to return to you.

“You can always make yourself a plate, sweetie. Don't starve yourself.” You replied frimly, you walked through the hallways as he followed behind you.

You settled into the chair at the neatly set table, the crisp brown cloth contrasting with the rich, dark wood beneath. He began to fill the meal, carefully lifting the lid from a steaming porcelain dish and dishing out vibrant, aromatic food that filled the air with its savory aroma.

The utensils clinked softly against the plates as he prepared his serving, a sense of expectation hanging between you. You knew he loved your cooking, there was no need to speak about that.

Taking his seat across from you, he dug into the meal with a satisfied hum, savoring each bite and clearly relishing the flavors.

You watched him intently as he slipped off his shoes, the soft thud breaking the gentle ambiance, and unfastened his coat, draping it casually over the coat rack. “I love your cookin’ you know that?” he mentioned, his eyes on you.

Your lips curled up in a warm smile, your heart fluttered in your chest. “I know that, you tell me that shit every time I cook,”

He then moved to the counter sink, filling a glass with cool water, the sound of liquid pouring into the glass punctuating, and took a long, refreshing gulp.

His gaze wandered over you, lingering on the nightgown you wore—the delicate black fabric that clung to your figure in all the right places, a garment he adored.

The playful glint in his eyes suggested that the food was not the only captivating thing in the room, making it thick with undeniable attraction. He stood up from the table, made his way to the sink, washed his hands and his plate. Drying them off with a towel.

“Why did you come back? After all these years, couldn’t you have stayed with your brother?” You replied back, your brows knitted in anger.

“You gon’ kick me out? This is still my home. I bought this place for us, so we’d always have a home to return to, Y/N,” Smoke retorted, placing his empty plate in the sink.

You stood up from the table, walking toward your husband where the sink was, cutting the distance between the two of you. His gaze locked upon you, the closeness he missed so much was here, the intimacy beckoning for both of your calls.

He was right about that, ever since the two of you were teenagers, he vowed to do this, keep you happy and safe from the threats of his life, be with you.

He stepped closer to you, his clothes lingered with the scent of gun smoke, and his fresh cinnamon, eucalyptus cologne evaded your senses. Why don't you just speak up? Tell him.

“I…I never thought that you'd be back for good, all this time I prayed that you weren't dead, and you can't make up for those years taken from us, Elijah!” You yelled harshly, your voice broke with emotion.

His hands cradled your face, bringing you closer while your face softened at him, his thumbs swiped over your cheeks to wipe those tears away, and your hands laid on his clothed chest.

“You pushin’ me away cuz’ you think I'm gon’ leave you again? Nah, I'm a man of my word baby.” Smoke replied firmly, his voice filled with sincerity, grabbing your hand in his.

He placed your hand on his middle of his chest, feeling his heartbeat like a drum, he smiled at you before kissing your forehead and then lifting your chin, kissing your lips passionately before pulling away to look at you again.

“You feel that? My heart beats for you, keeps me alive, and strong. I ain't going nowhere, you hear me?” Smoke replied, wrapping his arms around you.

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head. “You a poet now, my love? I hear you but who did you get that from? Langston Hughes?”

“I'm tellin’ you what’s on my heart, darlin’ or do I need to show you?”

“Why don't you do that?”

Following that, the two of you retreated to the bedroom, clothes strewn across the floor, with soft moans mingling with slurred words as your face was buried in the pillow.

Smoke held your hips tight from behind, driving into you with a rapid yet forceful rhythm. Making sure that you felt every inch of his dick, all you could do was scream his name and you took it like a pro.

“You miss me, baby?” He groaned, his hand delivering a rough smack on your ass, watching your wetness coat his dick completely. The sheets shocked underneath, remnants of the passion he left behind.

“I-i..missed you..fuck!” You moaned loudly, eyelids closed shut nails while your hands balled up the blankets. Tears blurring your vision, you came undone quickly which made him darkly chuckle before kissing you.

He smirked at your face contorting in pleasure, your body shaking against his as sweat covered your bodies, he peppered kisses along your spine, “Good, cuz’ I missed you more, and I told you I'm stayin’ right?” Smoke grunted after every thrust after pulling out.

He wrapping his arm around you and flipped you on your back, sliding his dick back inside you. You shudder at the warm feeling, it felt so right. With him. “Y-yes, I..I need you, Elijah. Only you,” you gasped, your words a desperate plea that only fueled his intensity.

His eyes darkened with desire as he leaned closer, his lips peppered kisses on yours. Wet noises of your pussy swallowing his dick, the bed creaked. “Sounds like your pussy ain't forget about me,” he said to you, his voice deepened. He released low groans, “Eiljahhhh..shit!” you lamented, clawing at his shoulder blades. he missed you so much that words couldn't even explain.

“That’s what I like to hear, baby. You’re mine, and you know just how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his thrusts became sporadic and deliberate. Flipping you onto missionary.

Smoke’s hands roamed your body, his nails dug deep every curve as if he were tracing the stretch marks on your dark brown skin. “My beautiful wife, where would I be?” he said, His fingers tangled in your braids, pulling you closer as he thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot.

“Elijah! Please—more,” you cried, your back arching as waves of pleasure coursed through you. You could feel his heartbeat matching the rhythm of your own, tiny cries from you spurred him on.

He chuckled darkly, his thrusts becoming more relentless, pushing you to the edge. “You think you can handle it? You’re not too sore for me, are you?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust.

“No, I can take it! I want it all, Elijah!” you whimpered, feeling yourself teetering on your climax.

“Damn right you can,” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he drove into you. Your knees buckling in response.

With each crazy thrust, he punctuated his claim, and you felt your body responding, tightening around him, begging for release. “Elijah…I’m gonna cum,” you breathed, your voice breaking. Your legs rested onto his shoulders.

“Can I give you some twins, baby?” he coaxed, his lips finding yours again, swallowing your moans as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

“Yes…baby,” You cried out his name, your body shaking as you came undone once more, Smoke followed closely behind, his warm cum spilling deep within you, giving you the twins he asked for.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hands stroked your face, “You good?” he asked, and you felt the warmth radiating from him, “Yeah…I’m good…” a comfort you had longed for during his absence.

“I missed you so damn much,” he confessed, his voice softening as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re here now, baby. And that's what matters most.”

—————-

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

When they fucking?! 😩😂😂😂😂

Part Eight. The entire chapter is them finally hunching.

[thickianaaaa]

Lmaooo 😂💀😭

I thought yall would find humor in this 😂@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @spookysanta

@jazziejax @soufcakmistress @miyuhpapayuh @chromehoney @maugustiee

[writingsbytee]

THE HOTLINE

SEX OPERATOR TERRY RICHMOND x BLACK FEM READER

*Remember, you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors, please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND HAS NOT BEEN PROOFREAD

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

SUMMARY: Set in the early 2000s. Taking your best friend’s tipsy advice, you decide to call a sex hotline for help with dirty talk and your overall insecurities surrounding sex. When you call your local sex hotline, you get more than what you bargained for when Terry pics up the other line. 

PAIRING: Terry Richmond x Blaire (reader)

WARNINGS: 18+; explicit dirty talk, mutual masturbation

AUTHOR’S NOTE: My brain is being CONSUMED by Aaron right now, so enjoy this piece that's been sitting in my drafts for months because I was too scared to finish it!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k

PART 2

TAGLIST

@blackgurlnhermoods @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @keehendrixx @keyaho @megamindsecretlair @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrishh @pinkkycherrish @episodes-ff @kimuzostar @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @pocketsizedpanther @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @nayaesworld @earthchica @simplyzeeka @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @rose-bliss

Divider: @anitalenia

“I’m sorry Blaire, I just don’t think we’re sexually compatible,”Devin, your now ex, says. Popping the top off a bottle of Don Julio, you start to make yourself a drink. 

“Okay, you can see yourself out” you say, not even bothering to look at him.

“So that’s it? We’re just done?!” Devin shouts.

“Well according to all the bitches you’ve been talking to, this is long overdue. So Devin, like I said, please get the fuck out of my house,” I look up at him, flashing a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Good luck finding a man who’ll fuck a frigid bitch like you,” Devin snarled, grabbing his coat. 

You rolled your eyes and scoff, trying to act like his words don’t phase you. The rapid beat of your heart says otherwise. “Just get the fuck out,” you say, now bored with this interaction. Devin huffs more insults at you as he grabs the rest of his shit, leaving for good. When you hear the click of my front door, you lock it, grab your drink and settle into the sofa, cutting on the TV. 

You’re on your third drink and feeling a little tipsy, when your home phone rings from it place on the coffee table. A small smile graces your face when I see your best friend Nina’s name on the caller ID. 

Blaire: “Hello?”

Nina: “So, how’d it go?”

Blaire: sighs “We never even made it that far. He broke up with me.”

Nina: “He’s a fucking asshole! All because you and sex don’t have a good relationship?”

Blaire: “Apparently, we weren’t sexually compatible. I mean, he never made me feel comfortable. Never tried to get me in the mood, I’m not just a ‘get up and go’ kind of girl. I need romance, sexual tension, and desire. Devin never tried to help me overcome my insecurities around sex, as long as he got off it was fine.”

Nina: “I’m so sorry boo, you deserve so much better than that!”

Blaire: *voice breaking* “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I don’t want to be like this forever, broken”

Nina: “You are not broken. You just haven’t found anyone who you’ve felt vulnerable enough with to let that side of you come out. Wait, have you tried calling a sex hotline?”

You nearly spit out your drink.

Blaire: “You’re kidding right? No I haven’t tried one, I wouldn’t even know what to say”

Nina: “That’s the thing they’ll do all the prompting for you. It’s helped me just overcome the underlying embarrassment that I’ve had with dirty talk. You should definitely give it a go Blaire. What do you have to lose?”

You contemplated the idea, it never occurred to you to try a sex hotline for your chronic bedroom shyness. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt and, if it turns out to be a complete failure you won’t call ever again. 

Blaire: “Okay, give me the number.”

It’s 11:30 and you’re settled in bed in an oversized tee and fuzzy socks. Twisting up your light pink hair into a claw clip, you flop onto your stomach, turning on the TV. Your  twinkling lights reflect off your tumbler, bathing your room in an ethereal glow. The crumbled piece of paper sits on your nightstand, taunting you. Worrying your lip between your  teeth, you try to weigh the pros and cons. 

“Fuck it,” you mumble, reaching for your phone and the number. With shaky fingers you dial the number, your heart rate skyrocketing when you hear the tell tale dial tone. 

“Thanks for calling ‘the hotline’, how can we help you come today?”, a sultry woman’s voice answers the phone.

“I- I don’t really know what I need,” you say, a slight tremble in your voice.

“Well that’s okay sweetie, what do you want to get accomplished tonight?” the mysterious woman asks. 

“I just want to feel more comfortable talking dirty, and taking initiatives when being intimate. I’m tired of feeling sub-par when it comes to sex. I want to be desired like every other woman” you  said, twirling the phone cord around your finger. 

“Okay, I think I have someone for you. Are you interested in men or women?” She asks.

“Men please,” you say, timidly.

“Perfect! Terry’s going to knock the shyness right out of you. Hold a minute while I connect you. Just remember sweetie, relax and have fun.” With that, she disconnects our call and I hear the beeps of her transferring me. 

There’s a pause on the other end before you hear a throat clear, “Hello?”, a voice that sounds like melted velvet bleeds its way through your phone speakers almost causing you to drop it.

“H- Hi”, you say, the nerves clear as day in your voice. 

“Hey now, don’t be nervous, we're friends, aren’t we baby?”immediately your pussy quivers at the tone of his voice.Who knew a man could sound so sexy? Just the sound of his voice alone was enough to melt the panties of every woman in a five mile radius.

“Sorry, I’ve just never done anything like this before”you said, nervously.

“Well, let’s start slow. I’m Terry, and you are?” Terry asked.

“I’m Blaire. It’s nice to meet you Terry” you say shyly. You hear a raspy chuckle on the other end of the line before Terry says, “Pretty name, and I know the face matches.” Terry stopped tossing the stress ball between his fingers. Something in her voice caused him to lean forward, wanting to hear more, know more about the stranger with the voice like silk.

“What brings you to my little corner of the world, beautiful?”Terry asks, a curious frown on his face. This didn’t sound like one of the usual women he’d talk to. She sounded softer, sweeter, like she had no business calling a sex hotline.  Normally, he’s not supposed to ask for names. Keeping the anonymity was a  part of the thrill for most people, but he also wanted to know your name for his own personal stalker-ish reasons. 

You groan, an embarrassed laugh leaving your lips, “My boyfriend broke up with me today because we aren’t ‘sexually compatible’”

Terry feels his frown deepen in sympathy, “I’m sorry to hear that love. Break-ups are never easy, and let’s face it if you guys aren't ‘sexually compatible’, he probably couldn’t make you come anyway.”

A satisfied smirk makes its way onto Terry’s face when he hears your laugh on the other end of the phone.  

“C’mon sweetheart, tell me I’m wrong,” Terry coaxed, wanting to hear more of your voice. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you flip over.

“You’re right. He never made me feel anything south of the equator, which is probably why the sex was horrible. Like not even a twinge,” you finished with a giggle, the liquor getting to you. 

“Well I hope I’m more successful,” Terry says, his voice dropping an octave. You’d only been on the phone with him for a few minutes, but his voice was already working its magic on you. The flush of heat, leading to the gentle flip of your belly. A welcome feeling that you thought might never return. 

“You’re already doing more than he ever did,” you mumble, getting up. 

“Oh am I?” Terry asked, the smirk on his face beginning to darken. He was going to have fun with you.

The silence on your end of the phone was beginning to stretch. Your mind begins to wander, wondering if you made the right decision.

“I’m sorry! This is my first time doing something like this and I don’t know how I should act.”

“Just be yourself baby. I’ll take the lead if that’s okay with you?” Terry asks. He can already feel his balls tightening. Her voice, her innocence, it was beginning to affect him.

“I’d like that, thank you, Terry” you say, settling deep into the comfort of your bed. Your plush pillows surround you while your silk sheets rub against your freshly shaved body. 

“What are you doing now?” Terry asked. Another giggle left your lips as you replied, “Laying in bed watching jeopardy, and talking to you of course.”

“I see we have something in common, I’m a Jeopardy fan myself. Now, tell me beautiful, what are you wearing?” Terry asks, his voice dropping an octave. You feel yourself dampen between your legs at the question. 

“Just an oversized t-shirt and fuzzy socks,” you say your voice taking on a breathy tone.

“I want you to do something for me,” Terry asks. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable.

“That depends, what do you need me to do Terry?” you ask, a smirk slowly spreading across your face. 

“You’ll let me know if anything I say makes you uncomfortable, yeah?” Terry asks. 

A small hum leaves your lips, your horniness hits you all at once. Blanketing your brain in a haze, “Yes, Terry. I can do that,” your voice already taking on a breathy tone. A low groan leaves Terry’s lips on the other side of the phone. He flexes his hand, itching to wrap it around your throat. 

“Good, I want you to relax for me baby, can you do that?” Terry said, palming his hardening dick.

“Can you help me relax Terry? I’m sound wound up,”you say, not knowing where this burst of confidence came from. It must be the liquor, you thought. 

“Easy love, just breathe for me yeah? Do you want me there with you? So I can rub you down, feel your muscles relax and loosen under my touch. Imagine us lying together, skin pressed close, hearts beating in tandem. I can make you feel so good baby.”Terry coaxed, his own breathing slowing to match yours. His words painted a comforting picture in your mind. You could feel your nipples beginning to harden under the thin sleep shirt. 

Your breathing picked up, his words, his voice igniting something in you that you thought had long been extinguished. Desire. Your body started to warm as horniness hazed your vision. 

“Mm, I wish I could see your face, Terry. I would love to see who’s behind the voice that has my panties so wet,”you purred. Terry’s eyes widened on his side. Your increasing confidence was turning him on, making him hot under the collar. 

“Damn, baby I wish I could see you too. I’m loving this confidence, now tell me sweetheart are you relaxed?” Terry asks. He raises up from his lounge chair in his studio, yanking down his sweats, boxers, and grabbing his baby-oil. 

“What can I say? You bring it out of me. I’d be more relaxed if you were here with me, but this will have to do for now,” you tease. 

“ I love how you’re opening up for me baby.”Terry said. His balls aching with a need to release. You were doing a number on him and you didn’t even know it. Sure he got off with a client every one in a while, but there was something about you that drew him in. Making him want to know more about you, and not just sexually. 

“Are you wet right now pretty girl?” Terry asks, his hand coming up slowly to stroke his dick.

“If I wasn’t I am now,” you say with a slight giggle.

‘That’s my girl,” Terry chuckles. “Put two fingers in your mouth and swirl them around. Let me hear it,” 

A nervous laugh leaves your lips, “You want to hear it, Terry?” Terry groans at the way your name leaves his lips. “Yes baygirl, I want to hear every noise you make. I want to know what I do to you, how I make you feel. Every moan you release is all mine, so you better make sure I fucking hear it.”

A whimper leaves your lips at the dominant tone that Terry’s switched to. As if on autopilot, you bring your hand up to your lips and slide two fingers in. The slick wet noises of your fingers being wet by your tongue travel from your ears to Terry’s. A small moan releases from you at the pure nastiness of it all. Your drool practically leaking down to your wrist. 

“Listen to you, moaning already. You haven’t even touched that pussy for me yet. Blaire, is she wet for me?” Terry groans. His dick bobbed with attention, begging him to wrap his fist around it and tug. 

“I’m so fucking wet, Terry. My thighs are sticking together, when can I touch myself baby? I need to touch myself,” you moaned around your fingers. 

“Soon baby, take that shirt off for me, I need you naked for what I have planned,” Terry rips his own shirt off. His chocolate nipples tighten as they meet the cool air. 

“Rub your nipples for me Blaire. Tease them, tug at them, coat them in your drool until they look like shiny hershey kisses” Terry’s voice had taken on a hard edge, he was getting close and he barely touched himself. As he heard the sweet mewls you released he knew he needed you, and not just for phone sex. 

“You’re doing things to me baby. I usually don’t get like this but I need this, I need you. Can I have you Blaire? Will you be mine?” Terry sounded like a desperate man, begging for pussy but he didn’t care.

“Yess baby I’m yours, I’m yours!,” a high pitched moan leaves your lips as you tweak your right nipple a little too hard. The pain sent a jolt of pleasure right down to your clit. You couldn’t believe yourself, you were opening like a flower to a man you’d never met. 

“Your fingers are now mine baby girl, visualize me tracing my hands along your inner thighs, tracing patterns. Grabbing onto your luscious thigh kneading and tugging, slowly making my way upward, but not close enough to where you want me.”Terry voice lowers, the huskiness of it sounds like a growl. 

“Can I touch myself please Terry? I’m so wet” your moans spurring him on. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised baby. You’ve been wet since you heard my voice haven’t you?” Terry purred, his voice a seductive rumble. “Take a minute and focus on how wet you are. Feel it pooling between your legs, dripping down your ass, and wetting up your sheets. Feel how your body responds just at the thought of me, of what I plan to do to you when I finally get you alone.” Terry’s breath hitched as he listened to your needy whines and whimpers. 

“You want to touch yourself, don’t you baby?” Terry asks. Your reply is almost instant, “Yes please Terry! Can I?”

“Go ahead baby, give yourself some relief. But just know it won’t compare to how my fingers will feel, my lips, and my dick in that wet ass pussy,” his voice thick with need. “Make sure I hear everything, every moan, every gasp, the slick sound of your fingers as they play with my pussy.”

Your fingers glide down your body to come in contact with your wet pussy. A mess of whimpers and moans can be heard through the phone. “Tell me what you want to do to me Terry, are you  going to make me feel good?” you ask, a panting mess.

“I’m going to make you feel better than good baby. Fuck, my dick is rock hard for you Blaire,”Terry moaned, you could hear the slick sounds through the phone as he stroked himself. “I can’t wait to sink this dick deep inside of you, to feel that tight pussy wrap my dick in a warm, wet hug.” Terry’s hand moved faster, pumping his shaft with an increasing urgency as he continued to describe his fantasies out loud. 

His voice dropping to a husky purr, his voice dripping with raw, unbridled lust. “Oh baby, I can’t wait to have you spread open so I can claim you as mine. Eat that sweet pussy until you’re crying, begging me to stop,” his free hand cupping his heavy balls as he stroked his aching dick. 

You’re a moaning mess on the phone. Practically hypnotized by Terry’s words, “I need you, Terry!’ the needy whine left your lips without a second thought. When you dialed your local sex hotline you never thought the man on the other line would excite you, let alone hurl you toward one of the best orgasms you’ve had in months. 

“Fuck baby, you have no idea how much I need you. How bad I want to feel that pussy come for me,” he rasped, his breathing ragged. 

“Tell me how bad you need me baby,” You moan, your fingers form a mind of their own as they find their way inside your warm cunt. Breathless pants and whimpers bleed through the phone spurring on Terry’s need to get you as close as he is. 

“I’d drag you onto the nearest flat surface and fuck you however you want me to. Do you like it rough? I’ll give it to you rough. What about loving and soft, because I can do that too, baby. Your pleasure is my only concern..fuck. I’m hard as fuck for you baby,” he palmed his aching dick harder, the friction sending jolts of pleasure down his spine. 

Your fingers found your g-spot during Terry’s rant, eliciting high pitched squeals from you. “Terry, you have no idea how bad I wish you could be here with me. Nobody’s ever made me feel..unh. Feel like this before”

Terry’s chest heaved with a shuddering sigh at your confession. His heart ached at the longing in your voice, he had to meet you. “Babygirl, I’ve never felt like this before either. I want to meet you baby, can I do that? Can I meet my pretty girl?” This call reduces you both to babbling messes, too consumed in each other to pay attention to the outside world. “If I could only be there in person, baby, feeling your soft lips against mine, tasting how sweet you are,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing over the sensitive head of his dick. 

“I’d fuck you right here on this call, if technology allowed. I’d push into that tight pussy so deep, so hard, that you’d for- forget your own name,” Terry’s voice dropped to a sensual purr, his imagination running wild at the thought of finally getting you alone.

“Come to me, Terry! Fuck! I need you here, I want you baby please! Can’t you hear how wet I am for you? How bad I want you, don’t leave me hanging, please,” more needy cries leave your lips and meet Terry’s ears. He was going to lose his mind if he didn’t have you. 

Terry’s breath caught in his throat as he listened to your sultry whispers, his mind reeling with the intensity of his arousal. “Blaire, baby, you’re killing me with these sexy ass words of yours. I can almost feel your breath on my ear, begging me to take you harder, deeper,” he groaned, hips rocking instinctively as he continued to stroke his engorged member. 

With a deep breath, Terry opened his mouth to say something that would absolutely get him fired, “Give me your address sweet girl, and I’ll be there. I’ll fuck you all night, every way you want me to, don’t you want me there with you baby. I’ll take care of you, I’ll hold you, please you in ways you’ve never felt. Just a few numbers and a street name and I’ll be there.” The horny declaration leaves his heaving chest, but Terry doesn’t regret anything. He just hopes you’ll say yes and give him that address. 

You contemplate the idea. Should you really give your address to a phone sex operator, no matter how sexy the voice. Your buzz had mostly worn off, in its place a crippling horniness. Terry made you feel things you thought were once dead inside you, how could you deny yourself the opportunity that is this man. Being a single black female in a semi-big city, you weren’t an idiot. You had protective measures in place. So with a sigh and a shy giggle to read off your address to Terry. 

“Can you do something for me Blaire?” Terry asks, yanking his sweats up over his aching dick. It’s taking everything in him to stop, but he has to get to you. He has to meet the vixen that's taken hold of him almost instantly. 

“Anything,”you say, so delirious right on the edge of cumming.

“Don’t come until I can get my hands on you,” Terry hangs up the phone, promptly ending your session. Your chest heaving in frustration and desire at Terry’s command, you had something for his ass when he got there.

OH MY GOD!! OBVIOUSLY THERE’S A PART 2 COMING!! 

I could never leave y’all hanging like that, but be warned it might be a while. Getting back into the groove of things and starting a second job has taken up a lot of my time. I’m finding my footing though so more consistent work will be coming. As always I always accept criticism, but please be gentle, I’m a tad but sensitive about my writing. Send me asks and requests, I love reading what you guys come up with! I love y’all to the moon and back thank you so much for consuming my work. 

UNTIL NEXT TIME

TEE <3

[keyaho]

.chapter warnings: This entire part is CNC. If you are not comfortable with that as a kink please do NOT engage with the material. Another large kink warning for this chapter is that Terry is a Sexual Sadist his pleasure isn't coming from the act of p in v sex. This part is about his pleasure specifically and his kinks. Nami benefits yes, I guess you could say, but Terry stands ten toes on "you're here for my pleasure".

🟡 🟢 🔴 ⚫

.word count: 8k

Kinks explored: CNC, Anal, Shibari, Spanking, Choking, Primal Play, Sexual Sadism, Sensory Deprivation, Dacryphilia. Somnophilia. Terry is very chatty.

Taglist: @nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @heauxvibez @avoidthings @mymindisneverhere @eilujion @heytaewrites  @insidefeelingofanadult @captainwithoutmakingitlove  @kindofaintrovert @jimmybutlrr @beenathembo  @virgomess  @theereina @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz @megamindsecretlair 

@wabi-sabi1090 @iterum-incipi @liquorlaughslove @eilujion @taureanstargirl @mzv11@Disc0fair @prettyfilmz @simplyzeeka @heytaewrites vivaalenaa theogbadbitch @zillasvilla @nahimjustfeelingit-writes

Insertcatchynamerighthere writingsbytee pocketsizedpanther @blckblossom @solunaseira @sisinever @saturnthehumanoid @fakxmbj @beenathembo @summwerella @nubiagurlll @onherereading @harmshake @clar-ese @star017 @cocooned-butterfly @madamedantes @dezzy154 @blossom3010 @mitruscity @I-write-what-i-love @ranikyani @shurisleftearring @kyemarazack @secretlifeoofmarpessa @marshmellowtotts @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @youthfuldiatribes

.summary.: It wasn't anything Nami did to make Terry so curt with her and nothing she did could change his mood or his plans.  

Everything was pissing Terry off. He watched Nami busy herself around his kitchen. Everything. Her yellow dress wasn't right. He didn't like the straps and how they crossed in the back. He wanted her naked and he knew if he told her she would strip down for him. Yet, he didn't want that. Curling his hands into a fist he almost missed Nami walking over with a smile with their early dinner. He'd asked for the same dish she cooked two weeks ago he praised, though now he stared at the bowl of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables, pissed off. 

"Is everything okay?" 

Nami had notice his mood was off the moment he called her over. He did want to spend time with her. That wasn't the issue. Terry's eyes flickered up to Nami and then back to his plate. 

"I'm not hungry anymore." 

"Oh,' she says, slightly disappointed. “Okay, I’ll put this alway then.” 

He said nothing and she took the plate back to the stove. She found containers and stored his food in the fridge before cleaning his plate. Terry could see the unease in her tense body. 

"I think Daddy has been too nice to you." He paused. "And Sir, well, he may need some correction as well." 

The words fell on Nami like ice cold water. She didn't know what to say but she didn't like the tone of voice he was using. It was different. Off kilter and she immediately knew who wasn't here with her. Daddy had been shelved and Sir took a vacation. 

"You know what I do adore about you Nami is your auditory perception skills." He praised, but it was more of a back handed compliment from these new lips. "It keeps you one step ahead of me and I don't like that." 

"I'm not trying to be ahead of you." What she should call him still was unspoken so the air around them tingled in silence for a few seconds. 

"I'm sure you aren't." 

She could hear the chair scrape the floor as he stood up. She resumed packing away the rest of the meal she had thought they would enjoy together. She felt like he was still standing there so she continued. Only pausing when she was finished, eyes focused on his lips instead of his eyes. 

His posture was surprisingly relaxed. However, his arms were folded across his chest. His expression was unamused, lips pursed, and his eyes downcast. She realized he was sucking his teeth with a tight jaw, the gesture so unlike him. 

"But you are and that needs to be rectified. Don't you think?" He asked. 

Her 'yes' would be admitting to his statement and they both knew that. Any answer would admit it. She knew not to say 'no' because why would she lie? Nami's shoulders slumped forward slightly and she looked down at the floor. She saw his feet approach. A clean man she knew his feet were neat like his fingers. They stopped in front of her and his scent filled her nose. Smoke. Terry smelled like heavy smoke and it confused her. He always smelled clean or neutral. This scent was artificial and heavy. Intentional. Distorting. Distracting. 

"I-'

She loved his hands. She had to remember that, but when he grabbed her jaw and squeeze, Nami whimpered in pain. He tilted her head up so they made eye contact. His fingers dug into her skin so tightly she could feel him pressing against the bones in her jaw. 

"You need to look at me when you speak. That's basic respect." 

He let her go and when she began to lower her head he pushed it back up, smacking the bottom of her chin roughly. Her teeth smacked together and her eyes began to water. 

"Don't cry. I haven't done anything worth that yet." 

Terry leaned down until they were eye level. Nami, overwhelmed, lifted her hands as if was going to push him away. Ever perceptive, her Dom grabbed her by the wrists and yanked the behind her back. Holding them there in annoyance. 

"You've never come that closing to knowingly putting your hands on me. Don't make that mistake. Not tonight." He looked into her brown eyes with a glint in his own. Mischief spread through him and his lip curled upwards on one side. "You have a few minutes to let me know what you're feeling right now. Afterwards, I'm doing a refresher." 

Nami held still in his grip, her shoulders beginning to ache as he pushed upwards on her arms. They were folded across her back, but the added push kept them rigid. She winced when she tried to adjust and felt his grip tighten. 

"What's your name?" She whispered. 

Terry hummed. "Are you smart, Nami?" He replied. "Because I asked you to tell me how you're feeling and here you are asking me a question." 

Nami looked away from him. She didn't know how to navigate this situation. Being this close to him she noticed the scent of smoke grew thicker. Focusing on that she did begin to feel a little fear. 

"You're setting a dangerous precedent that you don't give a fuck about your feelings. I accept that. So I won't care either." He let out a disappointed sigh. "I'm being mean,' he says, lowering his gaze to her, "let's do this in a way you are familiar with, shall we?" 

Terry turned around and moved to the dining table. He turned around one of the chairs and plopped down into it, a smile on his thick lips. 

"Come." 

Nami took a step and froze when he snapped his fingers. "Nah, on your knees." 

"What?" She spoke, the word falling off her lips, accidently. 

"Excuse me?" 

Nami's eyes widened as she covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm sor-'

"Shut up and do what I said. That's the apology.." 

He could see her hesitation and if he wasn't pushing her boundaries what was the point? She was a little lamb, standing in his kitchen, and he was the wolf. He was ready to hunt. 

"I don't want to come get you, Nami." Terry scratched at his jaw. "You know the only way out of this." 

"I don't want out." She whispered. 

Terry clasped his hand together and leaned back in the seat. His legs spread and he made himself look inviting, though the expression on his face was hard. Nami sucked in a deep breath and as she lowered to her knees she let it out. She couldn't see him over the island that separated them, so she used the few seconds to collect herself. The floor was cold under her hands, as she moved one leg and hand at a time. She had her head back, knowing if she came around the corner with her head down, he'd say something. Or in his mood, do something. 

As she crawled around the island, she saw Terry glanced down at her. He didn't move, but his eyes followed her as she crawled towards to him. When she was closer enough, Terry wrapped a hand around her curls, twisting them into a makeshift pony tail he used to pull her up. 

"You're going to hate me by the end of the night,' he speaks slowly, his hips rising from the chair while he pushes down his sweats. "Too bad I won't give a damn." 

His dick springs free, semi-erect as he shimmies the sweats around his ankles. Nami's mouth opens instinctively, and he obliges. Guiding her head closer, he pushed the tip past her tongue, finding home int he back of her throat. Nami blinked through the gagging sensation, her hands bracing to the floor as his grip slackened. Terry slid closer to the edge of the chair, letting her stay on her hands nad knees with his dick pushed down her throat.

"We're about to go through your rules for today." 

Nami nodded, slurping sounds filled his ear as she willed herself to remain still. Terry pushed her head further down his shaft, stopping when her nose brushed his lower abdomen. He hummed and reached between them to pinch her nose. Nami's eyes shot up to him and he met her gaze, a wink followed before he released her. He watched her struggle to breath around his dick, choking and blubbering messily as she regained control of her ragged breaths. 

"The first,' he says, patting the top of her head, "you do not speak. You do not make a sound. I could be fucking you into oblivious and I better not hear it." He flicked her nose, a threat to pinch it again, and smiled when she inclined her head away from his touch. "How can you hear me if you're making all that noise?" 

Nami wanted to give a sound of agreement, but she waited. 

"Oh, see, that's selective listening." He ran his thumb around her lips, collecting some of the spit that had seeped out. "I want you active." 

Terry removed her from his dick, thick spit and drool flooded from her mouth and he used his hand to wipe it all over her face. 

"Eyes on me,' he snaps, tilting her chin up. "Two, if you want to stop then you need to use the safe word. Do you remember it?" 

Nami nodded. 

"Do you want to use it now?" 

Nami shook her head. 

"I'm not going to be gentle. I don't even care if you cum tonight." 

His hand is slowly stroking his dick, the tip pressed to her lips as he talks. Pre-cum leaks over her lips but she keeps them closed. 

"Three, follow my instructions." 

Nami watches him stand up, his dick flush in her face. He stepped around her and yanked the dress off, tossing it somewhere in the living room.  

"Crawl to the garage." 

Nami bit back the urge to whine. Her throat was beginning to ache and so was her pussy. As she crawled, Terry followed her. When she was a few paces from the garage door he landed a smack to her left ass cheek. It popped loudly and Nami's knee gave out from the strike. A heavy hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her back through the kitchen and to the dining table. 

She couldn't hold back and the sudden strike to her skin made her scream. His hand hurt. The pressure he applied was tenfold. Terry rolled his eyes, and let out a breath through his nose. 

"Go!" 

He watched her crawl again, this time letting her hand wrap around the handle, before he hit her ass upwards, watching the recoil, the painful recoil. Nami pushed open the door, almost falling down the first stair into the basement. 

Terry snatched her by the back of the head and brought her too her feet. "Ten." 

He flips on the light and pushed Nami ahead of him. His hold on her hair tightening as she walks down the stairs. The room was cold. Along the walls were riding crops, shelves of toys, a basket of lube, and the St. Andrews cross bolted to the wall piqued her interest. There was a bed, but she was pushed to the floor in front of it. Her familiar yellow cuffs were already hooked to the bed. Terry sat in a chair he pulled from a side wall. Fluidly, he tosses Nami over his lap. He raises his hand and swings down, smacking her right ass cheek twice. 

"Acknowledge by holding up the right number of fingers." 

Her arm flew out as she flashed him two fingers. One of them she wanted to flash by itself. 

"You only had three rules. Easy,' he hissed, "and you broke one so quickly." 

Nami's played back the interaction a few moments ago. She crawled. Her body sagged into his legs.

Crawl to the garage. That was it. She opened the fucking door. 

Terry finished her punishment quickly. She was disoriented each time he asked for the count, but when he go to ten, she threw her hands up as high as they would go. Her ass wasn't the only thing burning. Terry had landed hits to the backs of her thighs as well. He pushed her off his lap and stood as she dropped to the floor. 

45. The submissive wants to feel used. 

She knew he was going to go through that list of kinks, but she didn't know if she wanted Terry to be the one to do them. She didn't want out, but her body was screaming bitch run.

"Are you ready to play?" 

She could hear chains and rattling. From the floor, she pushed to sit on her knees, and watched him. Colorful thick ropes dangled from his hands as he approached her naked form. Terry lowered on his haunches in front of her and his pursed lips looked inviting, but she knew better than to lean forward and seek him out. 

"I hope I won't spend the rest of the night putting my hands on you." 

He tipped her chin up with a finger. Again, Nami shook her head, still reeling from the previous spanking. 

"We're going to take this at a reasonable pace." He showed her the yellow ropes. "Hands." 

Nami clasped her hands together and held them out. The yellow rope was wrapped around them snugly. In his other hand was the end of a pully system that he connected the rope to. He stood and hooked the pulley back into the wall. There was a tug on the ropes as he tested he tension. Beside him was a table where he pulled a black eye mask from the drawer. It slammed shut and his silence began to unnerve her. She needed to hear his voice. It was fitted over her eyes. 

Darkness flooded her eyes. Unable to see him she didn't know where he was in the room. His scent was still smoky and heavy, this time laced with an urgency she could practically feel. She tried to listen, hear where he was, but was betrayed by the brown noise he started to play over speakers. The static sound didn't soothe her anticipation, it added to the cacophony of anxiety she felt. 

The pulley suddenly began to tug and Nami followed her arms as they were lifted above her head. When she was on her feet the pulley continued, lifting her to the tips of her toes before it stopped. She dangled there, barley touching the ground while trying to position her arms to they didn't lock up. 

A hand flattened against her stomach and she was pushed backwards. She swung a few inches as she pulled on the pulley to some stability. As she regain her position a rope was thrown around her stomach and tied. She couldn't make out the pattern, but she felt three knots going down her belly. His breathing was soft and she could feel his breath fanning against her face. Terry kissed her as he tested the tightness of the knots. He bit her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth as he pulled away. 

A heavy hand landed on her knee and pushed it towards her stomach. There was another rope, binding her leg to her thigh. It left her on one foot and she could feel the cool air between her legs, the dampness she had been trying to stifle had reared its ugly ass betraying head. His hand dipped between her thighs as he admired his work. 

"You should see how good you look." 

He circled her, his hand dragging over her sensitive skin. The ropes pressed into her. The snug binding provided the touch she was craving for a brief moment. 

"Fine ass." He breathed into her ear. "It's a shame what I have planned for it." 

She wanted him to act. 

He pulled her back against his chest. His hand crept down her stomach, dangerously close to her sex. Swatting her ass, Terry resumed being distant. She could hear ropes as they fell to the floor. A third was hooked into the knots on her stomach and she felt it being raised. Secured, Terry bought her other leg up to her chest and bound it the same as the other. The elevated open frog pose split open her slit and his greedy eyes fell to the way she was beginning to drip. He knew he was on the right track, but like her, he liked to fuck shit up too. 

He walked to the pulley on the wall that held her hands up and released it. The tension slackened so quickly that Nami anticipated falling to the ground. However, the impact never came. She had instinctively clenched her eyes shut. The blindfold reminded her she was visonless when she opened her eyes. 

Dangling from the ceiling, she was at his mercy. 

"I know you don't remember the order of kinks on the list I gave you. But I am sure you are familiar with this one, baby." 

Terry came to stand in front of her. He placed his hands on her hips and she had learned quickly how menacing his hands could be. From giving out pleasure to swatting her ass into hell, they were becoming a terror to her temperament. When he stepped between her thighs, she could feel his bulge; firm, rigid, hard against her sex. 

"Perfect." 

He steps away from her and if only she could see the grin on his lips. 

"Acknowledge with your hands." He ordered. 

Leather. 

Wet. 

Stinging. 

He struck her with a long black riding crop on her inner thighs. Nami jerked against the only rope holding her up and Terry landed a corrective swat to her side. She twisted away from the sting. 

She held up one finger, a tremble in her hand as it dropped and dangled beside her. The pull on her stomach was uncomfortable. She felt like she was being split down the middle. The crop slid down between her breast, circled her nipples before it smacked them both. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but the rope restricted the movement. 

Each his was harder than the last, she was whimpering, trying to keep the noise down, but he wasn't making it easier. It was like he was hitting her to make her make noise. He wanted her to break. He wanted to hear her, but between the pain and his unrelenting strikes to her body, Nami felt warm. She couldn't rub her thighs together, but her pussy betrayed her even further and began to leak and drip to the floor. She wasn't sure if he noticed, but she could feel her slickness sliding between her ass cheeks. 

The crop landed between her legs, stroking her cunt and coating the leather in slick. He popped her a few times, laughing slightly as she hissed between her clenched teeth. She knew he was building up to something, but the what still thwarted her. 

For Terry she was a blank canvas and the crop was his paint brush. He littered her body with hits, ignoring the way she curled way from him. It was a game then and he chased her. The crop became an extension of him and when he drew his hand back, to swat her ass for what he was sure the hundredth time, he heard it. Like her cunt, her face was leaking. Fresh tears rolled down her face as she began to grasp as the air around her for something to hold on to. She wasn't outright crying, but when he walked to stand by her head, he could see her lips trembling. Her body was betraying her. He was elated to see her reaction. It wasn't about enjoyment.

This wasn't her playtime. 

Terry grabbed her head and pulled her up, the blood rushed down her body and she instantly felt loopy. He pulled off the blindfold, her red eyes brimmed with unshed tears. 

Nami studied his face. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking through her. Terry's tongue flatted against her cheek as he licked her tears. The salty taste almost as good as what he knew her pussy tasted like. He let her go, watching her body swing towards the floor before it was caught by her restraints. 

She doesn't remember how many time he hit her but when her body was lowered to the ground and she was turned on her stomach, she knew he had. Of course he had. 

He came to a stop beside her, the crop hung at his side. His dick strained against his sweats and threatened to burst out. Not that she'd mind it. She'd much rather be choking on dick than her tears. She pressed her forehead into the floor only for it to be yanked up. 

"You stopped counting after seven. You missed the last thirteen. I'll add it to your tab. I want you to feel it." 

Terry cut the rope around her stomach and legs, though he didn't leave her unbound for long. She could hear another drawer opening and slamming shut as she laid on the floor. 

His disregard for her was hurtful as if he didn't care about how she was feeling. 

You're setting a dangerous precedent that you don't give a fuck about your feelings. I accept that. So I won't care either.

This time she was crying from his distance and not the physical distance. He wasn't here with her. She could usually read him and figure out how to lure softness from him. Terry had been keeping himself at a distance and only perused her body when he wanted to. She had been resistant to him the entire night, pushing back in hopes he would break, but the past few hours hadn't given her any reprieve. He just became rougher, testing her limits, and kept his emotions in check. He didn't seem to have any buttons to push and Nami whimpered into the floor. 

The rope was black this time as he pushed her on her stomach. Her feet were bound together first and he lifted them. The ache in her thighs and legs magnified as they fell to the ground with a hard thud. 

She saw a flash of yellow and a dress was tugged over her head. The blindfold was put back on and she was pulled up and over Terry's shoulder. His hands smacked the back of her thighs in jest. Mocking her for crying. 

"Oh, baby,' he jeered, "Daddy making you cry?" 

Nami felt the chill of the air as they stepped outside to his car. She noted the sunset, the various colors muddled together from the blindfold and the upside down position. 

"It's good for you. I want you pleading for me to let up and while your begging me for a break, I'm going to keep breaking you." His finger dug into the flesh of her ass. "I'm going to make you mourn, baby." 

A few beeps later and she was on her feet as Terry opened the trunk of the car. 

"Let's go for a ride." 

Nami lied in the trunk of Terry's car as he drove. He had given her a yellow dress, but between the blindfold and her tightly bound wrists, she didn't know what it looked liked. Each bump of the road jolted Nami around the trunk and she ended up on her stomach, her hogtied hands and feet up in the air. 

Positional restraint asphyxia, he had explained while she dangled from his basement ceiling. On her stomach, the strain in her arms and the tight space made the trunk feel even smaller. Nami laid her head down, breathing in slowly through her nose. He had taped her mouth shut and with the blindfold, she could only hear and it was driving her insane. The car came to a sudden stop and Nami rolled to her side unintentionally. She could hear his door slamming shut and the shuffle of his boots on the ground as he approached the back of the car. 

From the outside, Terry rubbed his gloved hand over the top of the trunk, patting it twice before it opened. Nami flinched from the sudden sound and she could hear Terry speaking. He unclipped her hands and feet before dragging her out of the car. He snatched off the blindfold and helped her stand up. 

"Welcome to my playhouse,' he muttered, a grin slowly creeping on his lips. 

Legs weak, Nami was pushed towards the large house. She looked around in the cover of night, eyes blurry, and saw a long path that led to the backyard. She could see tall bushes over the fence line. Terry dragged her up the steps, picking her up off her feet twice to get her up the stairs faster. There was no change in his breathing, no struggle, no pause. 

"I did what you liked,' he said flippantly, "now we'll do what I like." 

Had they done what she liked? Maybe she liked being tied, but the way he tied her wasn't what she would call fun. As her eyes began to adjust, she noted the darkness of the house. She stood in the foyer, the new surroundings heightening her anxiety for what was to come. He left her there and she looked around, taking only a few steps into the living room. 

Terry was a man starved at this point. He tasted her sweet pussy and wanted more. He needed more from her but he wanted her leaking everywhere. He wanted to choke her full of his dick. 

Like a lumberjack, Terry stalked into the living room dressed in all black. His outfit consisted of his tactical gear, a grin, heavy boots and he even had a pair in his hand. Nami stood there, the rope bruises decorated her arms and legs in red and yellow splotches, the yellow peasant dress covered just enough. As sheer at it was she might as well be naked. She much preferred that than to this. He knelt in front of her and helped her into the boots. His rough hands trailed up her legs and back down. His eyes were lustfull with pupils blown like he was on drugs. 

He stood up and pointed towards the back yard. 

"I want to see how good those skills are." He whispered in her ear. "I'm going to give you a two minute headstart. Hide from me and don't let me catch you." 

He pushed her towards the back patio door. He told her nothing about the house. It was designed by a company who specialized in primal play. The entire house was a Dom's version of paradise. The unique feature Nami pushed the door open and ran into was a maze. It was around six feet high of thick bushes. It was artificial for safety as on each wall of the bushes was a kill switch to flatten them to the ground. It was dark and the ground lighting was few and far in between. She had just enough to see. It was cool, the air a bit chilly in the temperature controlled place. Nami's heart raced in her chest as she rounded corner after corner, looking for a hiding spot. 

"Fuck,' she cursed, panting as she came to a halt at a dead end. 

She turned around, managing to slip down another pathway that led towards a fountain. She had two options to pick from and as the blood rushed behind her ears her eyes darted between each choice. 

“You’re so fucking loud, Nami, damn. You’re making this too easy.” 

Terry strutted into the area just a few paces from where she stood. 

“Come here.”

Nami took a step backwards. He shook her head, remembering the words he told her just five minutes ago. Don’t let me catch you.  

Nami turned on her heels and bolted down one of the paths. It was darker and colder in this area and she realized he set different temperatures for certain paths. Her breathing became labored as the path came to an end. Nami slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her panting. The bushes were moving. He was running. This time he was too close to turn and go back. She could hear his heavy boots as they smacked against the ground. Nami clenched her eyes shut as his boots stopped just on the other side of the bush. She could vaguely see his silhouette as he drew closer. His boot came into her line of sight first. Then his legs. In the dark she could barely make out his features. 

“Found you,” he sings in a whisper. 

Nami takes a step back, the bushes stopping her. Her dominant reached out for her and she shook, dodging his attempt to grab her. Terry loudly kissed his teeth. 

“Don’t play with me.” 

Nami wasn’t just going to let him catch her. If he wanted to play then she’d play. Nimble, she waited for him to grab her a second time. She lifted her hands and slipped out his grasp, using the momentum, she spun and put space between them.

"Nami." 

He reached for her and curled his hand around her neck. He was standing to his full height, breathing heavy, and she dropped her weight, the sudden change causing his grip to slacken. She smacked his hand away and ducked under him. 

“Nami,” he growled. “If I get my hands-”

She didn’t wait for him to finish that sentence. Instead she ran back down the path, stumbling and detouring to the left instead of the right. These pathways were shorter, less dead ends but more curves and cut away bushes. She slipped in and out of them, panting from frustration as it seemed like she was running in a circle. 

Her chest burned as she tried to keep her breathing down. She didn’t want to make too much noise and alert him to where she was. She also couldn’t drag this chase out. He wasn’t going to let her get away so easily a third time. She could hear the frustration in his voice a few minutes ago. 

I'm going to tear that ass up! 

His voice echoed through the maze and she couldn't pinpoint where he was. 

When I get my fucking hands on you! 

Nami's head snapped up then she looked down where the lights were. His shadow stalked closer and she walked backwards. He as on the other side of the bushes, just within reach, but out of sight. Slapping her hands over her mouth, Nami tried stepping forward, but his shadow stopped. Surely, if she could see his, he could see hers.  

"Oh, look at that,' he teased darkly, "there she is." 

She pressed herself against the bushes opposite of where he stood. She side walked, hoping he couldn't see her moving. 

"There's no way to get away from me." He tsks. "You go left, I'll see you. If you take the right, that makes it easier to catch you. And Nami,' he says, his voice lowering, "when I catch you." He breathed in and let out a low moan. "That pussy is mine." 

The thrill of the chase was wearing down as his threat on her cunt was said. Though, her clit throbbed at the possibility of being touched again, but her thighs still stung from his earlier punishment. She knew this time would be worse. He planned to lay into her. The soft material of the dress rubbed roughly against her taut nipples. She was aroused in a way that scared her. 

“Come on out.” He sung. “I won’t bite too hard.” 

She had to go left. Nami kicked off the boots, they were heavy and she was much lighter on her bare feet. The thick white socks followed and she tossed them over the hedge she knew he'd look, even for a millisecond- so she B O L T E D. He was right, he would see her if she went left, but in her haste and only when she rounded the corner that she realized she ran past him. Her body flung to the left, nearly toppling to the ground as she skipped slash skidded around the corner. She was sweating at this point and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hands. Her curls were damp around her face and the pretty bow he shoved in her hair had unwoven and was half hanging on to a curl. 

"This nigga,' Nami thought to herself. 

The slight skin tingling feeling of fleeing Terry had ignited a fire in her lower belly. She dared herself and reached between her legs. Sticky. Wet. 

"Can't believe it can you,' Terry says as he approaches. "This nigga what?" He asked. 

Fuck. 

"This game was supposed to have a much……easier endgame, but you like to fuck shit up right at the finish line." 

He looked and pointed over her shoulder. 

"This is the Cave." He explained. "All pathways lead here unless I lead you out." He pulled his phone from his pocket and she figured he opened an app that changed the lighting. "Sound proof, underground." He mused. 

Nami's head snapped up. Underground? Sound proof? Terry watched her; the way her shoulder slumped forward, but he could see she was trying to remain engaged. She had no idea what she had agreed to and standing there she had no idea how she was making Terry feel. Bricked. 

The chase had awakened a piece of him he reserved for work. For training other soldiers. For when he was in the field. She was a target. His two worlds clashing in a satisfactory way and he felt the dopamine release, his body tingling with his own thoughts of filth and hard debauchery. 

He was on her in seconds, hands ripping the fabric of her dress. He pushed her backwards, the ground changing from a hard gym mat material to plush carpets and tile. The end of the maze was a bedroom, stocked with whatever the renter needed at the time. There was an ensuite as well. Terry grabbed at Nami; her waist, her hips, thighs, whatever he could as he kissed her. She was guided to the bed and pushed to the center of it. He shed the gear and she realized it was weighted. Beneath it, his shirt was drenched in sweat and she knew her body was as well. He covered her body with his own, his clothes ending up somewhere across the floor. 

"I should be fucking you right now. But instead, you made a lot of noise tonight. You had the audacity to cum when I told you not too, and you touched my pussy. You. Touched. Me." 

Naked, Terry knelt between her legs, his hands sliding around her waist. His tip brushed through her wet slit, bumping her clit with each upward stroke. 

"I mean,' he grunted, pushing in just the tip, "I know I'm going to fuck you like I hate you." He sunk a few inches deeper, his thumb finding her clit easily. "I'm going to push you to the edge, then snatch you back." 

Nami felt her mouth slide open, her jaw aching as he slid two fingers into her mouth. He pressed them to the back of her tongue as his hips moved slowly between her legs. 

"I should be fucking you like this,' he hums, accentuated his words with shallow thrusts. "But you disobeyed me." He flashed her a toothy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm bullshittin',' he joked. 

"I was never going to fuck you like this." 

Tired was an understatement. Nami's limbs were weak, her shoulders sore, his thighs ached, and her ass felt raw. Terry had laid into her like he said he would and he she was, counting out the slaps to her ass again. 

33. 

Thirty-three. 

He added the thirteen from earlier and had been very intent on her counting each one of them. 

Nami was positon on her hands and knees while he stood in front of her, pumping his dick in and out of her mouth. Her hands dug into the bed, gripping the sheets as he rode her face. The swell of her ass was read, fifteen hits later, and he broke off to fuck her throat. Her collar, which he had taken off prior to the start of all this, was replaced with a belt that was snug around her neck. The rest of the belt was curled around his hand as he pulled, listening to her gag and struggle to breath. He reached down, pinking her nose closed before shoving his dick across her tongue. 

He pulled out and released her nose, the belt slacked and right before he struck her ass for the sixteenth time, he collected her spit and drool in his hand to use. Nami raised her hand, signing the number sixteen before her attention went back to the dick in her mouth. 

"That's it,' he coos tauntingly, 'suck my dick." 

Her head bobbed up and down as she looked up at him. His eyes were on her, focused, but didn't show any emotion or even pleasure. 

"Such a good little slut." He crooned. "This is what you're here for,' he explained. "There you go,' swallow that shit,' he grunt, pushing into her mouth and holding her still again. 

The tension on the belt was sure to leave marks, but Nami was beyond caring. There were no mirrors but when she looked at her wrists and saw the bruising, she knew her body matched. She was littered in red hand prints and rope bruises. She felt the him deep in her bones. Terry was unsettling. His voice lacked emotions. Though she understood the dick twitching in her mouth. 

Terry pulled her of, his dick falling out of her mouth with a wet pop. her mouth was flooded with spit and precum and she pooled it in her mouth before pushing it out. Terry watched it stream to the bed, creating a puddle. 

"Turn around, ass up." 

The anal plug he had neglected shone as the light hit it. He'd been admiring it all night, watching the way it was sucked in each time she clenched. Placing a hand between her shoulders, he pushes Nami into the bed as his dick slipping through her wet slit. 

He didn't ask if she was ready. His hips snapped forward and she almost slide across the bed. How could she want something and pull away from it at the same time. Her pussy was sore and swollen from his lack of attention. She was beyonce aroused. 

She feel him grab the belt against and she's pulled backwards by it. 

Ride it like hydraulics, I am such a tyrant….

One hand planted on her hip he kept her still as his thrust in-and-out while she clung to the bed on her knees. She clenched her teeth with each thrust, stomaching all nine and a half inches from the shallow thrusts. He didn't hold her for long. His hand resumed striking her ass. As if she could see him, she stretched her arm out, counting seventeen in sign language like she had when she reached ten earlier. He followed through with a few more strikes and she clenched around him. He pulled back on the belt and she gagged, tongue rolling out her mouth as she reached towards the belt. 

"Oh?" He says, his hips snapping against her so roughly he could feel his balls slapping up against her clit. "Is this too much?" 

He knew it was. Pushing her back down, he ditched the belt and held her hips. He pulled back to watch how his dick slipped in and out of her. Terry admire his own work. How he stretched her open, how he pulled more and more slit from her pussy, and how he was the cause of her drooling. The silence between them was loud, but couldn't get any louder than the sounds her pussy was making. 

"Dick makes you act right, hm?" Terry slapped her ass twice, alternating cheeks. He brought her up, and pressed his chest to her back. "You should be doing that regardless. Nothing a little correction won't fix." 

The loss of his dick had Nami searching for him again. She felt his hands as they flipped her onto her back. The bed was pulled from her neck and she reached up to touch the sore skin. Her throat was sore and when she had full control of her breathing, Nami turned on her side, erratically sucking in as much air as she could. Terry felt like a distant participant. As if the motions he was going through were robotic and disconnected from the relationship they had built. He put up a solid wall between them, encasing her in his world without letting her into his. This was more than a physical game. It was mental. He was in her head and it made her question her own reality. 

Was she really at this man's mercy?

The anal plug, in it's cute silver and yellow design, was pulled from her ass and tossed beside her head. Something was opened as the sound of a cap filled her ears. Cool and thick, lubricant was drizzled between her legs and his fingers smoothed from her ass to her clit. 

"Pussy fat as fuck,' he noted, "a fucking shame I didn't want to eat it." 

Grabbing her chin, he forced her to look at him. As he had any time he was in her face. "This is where I'm going to nut tonight,' he says as the fat tip of his dick pokes around her asshole. 

The sensation was new and she wiggled as her legs spread to accommodate his body between them. His initial push was slow, the stretch past the first ring of muscles made her hands clench beside her. This was something she wished he had bound her for. 

Nami's hands became sweaty, her legs move towards her chest as she tried not to kick him away as he pushed forward again. Inch my painstakingly thick inch, Terry seated himself in her ass. Hot and tight, he drew back for his first thrust. She didn't know how to feel. Instead, she braced her hands on the back of her thighs. Nami was well aware of how thick his dick was. She had it down her throat and stuff in her pussy like she was a Thanksgiving turkey. He felt bigger, thicker, longer, reaching parts of her that release pleasurable feelings. Feeling him in her ass was different. He stretched her open, mold her ass to his dick, and fucked her roughly. Terry planted his hands on the sides of her head as his hips rocked back and forth. 

"Nasty ass,' he hissed, spittle landing on her face the same way his sweat had. "Look at me when I'm fucking you." 

Nami knew it would come back to haunt her later, but she flattened her hands against his stomach, needing a break from the sensation of being fucked in the ass. Terry didn't stop moving, but she saw the glint in his eyes and could hear the gears turning in his head as he logged away her rule breaking for later. 

He bore down, applying more weight to his thrusts, jerking her up the bed until he had her by the headboard. Terry braced one hand on the headboard and the other grabbed Nami's hands and pinned them above her head. 

"I know you aren't running," he moaned, the sound deep and growl-like. 

"Please,' she whispered, "Terry, please, I can't….' 

His name felt foreign on her lips.

Terry ignored her please, her body twisting beneath him to get away from him egged him on. Encourage him. He let go of the headboard, balancing on his knees, before his hand struck her outer thigh. 

"Shut up." He seethed. 

It had all set in for Nami as he fucked her. His body taut and rigid as he chased his high. She could feel his dick throbbing, the stuttering in his hips as he faltered and fell forward, almost on top of her. 

Her touch triggered him and though he knew it wasn't sexual, his body treated it like it was. Her hands on his stomach felt she had unlocked his orgasm. The fire in his belly built fast, but Terry was faster. He pushed her face into the bed, his weight spread out over his hand and hips. That hand slid down and wrapped around her neck. His thumb pressed into her skin, rubbing back and forth as he chased his own high. 

Beneath him Nami was a mess. She had wrapped her legs around his waist. With no other place to put them she used them to hold on to her dom as he did Dominate things to her ass. Weeks of prep didn't prepare her for the real thing. Being rode like a horse, Nami's breathing hitched, her own orgasm nearing. Her eyes fluttered as she watched his face. The lines around his eyes crinkled as he smirked. 

"I'm a bastard I know,' he murmured. "But you like this shit,' he asked. 

Did she? Or was it the satisfaction she was chasing that she liked, because Terry? Let me chase you Terry? This fucking mean tyrant?  

"You're mean,' she breathed out, a hint of defiance in her eyes. "So mean,' she cried. 

His fingers found her swollen clit. He played with it roughly, pulling, pinching, and rubbing so harshly that Nami didn't know if she was coming or going. Her toes began to curl, back arching upwards before he slammed his hand into her chest and pushed her into the bed. It disoriented her and she lost the orgasm. 

"I think the fuck not." He shouted. 

Ice cold water pelted on her body as her eyes shot open. Nami went to move when an arm tightened around her waist. 

"Keep still baby,' Terry whispered. 

Nami tensed. She opened her mouth to protest when Terry whispered in her ear for her to relax and calm down. 

"Hey,' he says, when she beings to panic, her body shaking from his touch. 

Confusion knit through his brows as they drew together. She didn't know where she was. She just knew the person she was with probably wasn't done with her. The aches in her body detailed the night she had with her dominate. The reminders were littered all over her body. 

"Nami." 

How was she going to apologize for blacking out? 

Terry turned her around and she realized they were sitting on the floor of the shower. 

"They scene is over. I need you to look at me and take a few deep breaths." 

He held her face in his hands. The gentleness drastically different from what she had experienced that day. She didn't know what time it was. She just knew that she was overwhelmed, wired, and slightly scared. He leaned in to kiss her and she flinched. He took no offense. He knew she had to fully come down from that high. Everything he put her through wasn't normal by most standards. He pushed her to her limits mentally and Nami wasn't sure how she felt. For her their dynamic had shifted. She couldn't treat this like some one off or some once in a blue moon event. Terry had flipped her inside out. Rewired her in a way she didn't understand. He owned her body at this point.

He used her. 

"Tell me how you're feeling." 

There was still an edge to his voice. A bite he was trying to ease away. 

"I'm sore." She croaked. "I touched you. I'm sorry!" Her voice cracked and she started to cry again. "I passed out!" 

Terry was far from upset with her. He had spent the day dragging her through his ticks and the fact that she only touched him, intentionally, once was a miracle. How she was able to have that restraint when he was unrestrained on her body needed some rewarding. 

"36." He replied. "I still fucked you. I made you into my little Twinkie, twice." 

"Huh?"

36. The submissive wants to experience somnophilia. 

He ignored her and turned on the warm water. Helping her to her feet, he held her up and bathed her. Starting his aftercare while she regained some strength to stand on her own. He kissed each bruise, rope mark, and red splotch on her warm brown skin. His praise mingled with the rhythmic pelting of the shower water on the tiles. 

You did good. 

Such a good girl you were. 

Nami let her head fall back against the shower wall as he lowered to his knees. Her leg was lifted up and onto his shoulder. His mouth latched onto her clit, sucking slowly as she looked down at him. 

Those blue green eyes stared back up at her. She recognized them this time and breathed out a sigh of relief. 

"Oh, Daddy,' he whimpered. "I missed you." 

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Erik is addicted to eating pussy for sure 😘

i need a dude addicted to eating my pussy😩😩😩

[livingfiction]

Y’all come look at this 🤣🤣🤣🤣

@uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes l

[theethighpriestess]

Chapter 1 - The First Bite

A/N: First off, I wanna thank @nahimjustfeelingit-writes for coming up with this dope ass idea & @anaiyaflys143 for suggesting I write it. I hope I do you both justice. I think I want this to have multiple parts, but I need life to cooperate. Hope y'all enjoy!

*All character images created by me ☺️*

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult Language, Supernatural Elements, Typical Vampire Shit, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex (Not yet, but it's coming)

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 5.5K

New Orleans, 2005

Eden stared blankly at the digits on the weathered ATM.

$14.26.

All the money she had left from her work-study check that wouldn’t replenish for another week. Between rent, paying for studio time, and outfits for her upcoming shows, Eden had left herself broke and destitute yet again.

“Who told you to take the term ‘starving artist’ so literally?” she muttered to herself, tucking the receipt into the pocket of her tattered jean jacket.

She hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. Just a gas station honey bun, half a bottle of warm Sprite, and whatever sleep could trick her body into thinking it was full. Her rust-colored Honda ran on a quarter tank and prayer, the engine coughing every time she turned the key. The inside smelled like jasmine body spray, fried hair, and quiet panic.

Fishing her Motorola Razr from the depths of her tote, she scrolled to the contact labeled “Pops.” She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, before finally pressing CALL.

Three rings. A click.

“Yo,” came the gravelly voice on the other end. Always detached. Always mid-something more important.

“Hey,” Eden said, trying not to sound too pitiful. “You got like…twenty dollars I could borrow?”

A long pause. She could practically hear him blinking.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m all tapped out.”

She knew it was a lie. He always said that. She could hear a game show buzzing faintly in the background, followed by the sound of beer cracking open. But she didn’t press it.

“It’s cool, Pops.” She cleared her throat, pushing down the lump forming there. “I’ll make something shake. I saw an ad for a babysitting gig in the Garden District, so I’ll try that.”

“Good,” he said, voice already drifting. “See? You ain’t gotta always be runnin’ after those stage lights. Just find somethin’ steady.”

She didn’t respond. Just hung up and slid the phone back into her purse like it was a loaded gun.

Back at her tiny studio apartment in Mid-City, Eden sat cross-legged on her futon, her open planner in her lap. A flyer for an open mic night at Tipitina’s was pinned above her bed with a pink glitter pushpin. She had two weeks to come up with a new track and scrape together the $80 she owed her producer for the beat she was using.

She opened her laptop, praying it would connect to the neighbor’s spotty Wi-Fi. While it loaded, she scribbled in the margins of her notebook:

“I ain’t tryna sing for scraps, I want velvet on my mic stand Moët in my vocal booth, not noodles from the nightstand…”

Cute. Maybe.

She clicked over to Craigslist. Typing “cash gigs” in the search bar had become second nature.

Dog walking. House cleaning. Foot modeling?

But then, something new. Something far from anything she’d seen listed before.

“DONOR OPPORTUNITY – NIGHT WORK. DISCREET. HIGH COMPENSATION. 21+ ONLY. Must be comfortable with blood. Text 504-9VAMPYR.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. 

“Blood?”

She clicked anyway.

The ad was vague but intriguing. It promised “stress-free, safe work” for “exclusive clientele.” It also mentioned “consent-based feeding arrangements,” which sounded... weirdly medical. Or criminal.

She almost exited the tab—but her mouse hovered over the last line:

“Neck: $300/hr. Wrist: $400/hr. Inner thigh: $550/hr. Discretion required.”

She burst out laughing, sharp and alone in her little apartment. “Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a scam. Probably run by some dude named Clarence with a fake fang kink.”

But something about it stuck. Along with her passion for music, she also had a passion for all things occult: vampires, black magic, and everything in between. She was the bayou bruja stereotype personified, save the fact that she didn’t actually know any spells.

Eden wasn’t sure what it was about this ad that had her so curious. Maybe it was the dollar signs flashing in her mind. Perhaps it was the way her stomach twisted with nerves and low-grade hunger. Or maybe it was the fact that being bitten on the thigh for rent money somehow felt less soul-crushing than waitressing at a chain diner where the manager hit on her.

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Eden T. | Type O- | Available Nights

Then she added, like a joke she hoped the universe would get:

“I sing too, in case that’s relevant.”

She snickered to herself until the number responded, almost immediately.

504-9VAMPYR:

“Voice matters more than you know. You’re expected tonight. Come dressed in black. No perfume. Bring ID.”

Attached was a pin drop to an address in the Warehouse District. The kind of place that always looked abandoned from the outside but was crawling with secrets beneath the surface.

Eden stared at the screen. Then at her closet.

She had a mesh crop top, a fake leather skirt, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Close enough to black. She pulled them out with a sigh and laid them across her unmade bed. Her hands lingered on the hem of the skirt, suddenly wondering if she should shave. Then she laughed out loud, dry and humorless.

“Girl, if he’s a vampire, you think he cares about some stubble?” she mused, glancing down at her untamed bikini line.

She peeled off her hoodie and leggings and tugged on the outfit with practiced ease. The crop top rode up a little too high, showing off the silver belly ring she got impulsively after a poetry night and three Hennessy shots. She tightened the straps on her Docs and pulled her curls into a high puff, fluffing it just enough to look intentional.

Eyeliner came next. Heavy, winged, and slightly uneven, like it had been applied in a moving car or in the middle of a breakdown. She smudged a bit of charcoal shadow beneath her lower lashes for good measure, giving her eyes that soft, smoky bruised look, like she hadn’t slept in days but might still stab you if you stared too long.

A dusting of translucent powder dimmed the natural shine of her skin, but she let her freckles peek through. She dabbed a hint of burgundy gloss on her lips and pressed highlighter onto the high points of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Just enough to glow under bad lighting.

She looked like something out of a Southern ghost story. Part beauty queen, part grieving widow. Like the kind of girl you'd see barefoot on a sagging porch in the heat of July, black veil over her eyes, sipping sweet tea that might just kill you.

She stepped back from the mirror and tilted her chin to the left.

She didn’t look like someone about to audition for a vampire sugar daddy.

She looked like someone who had nothing left to lose.

But that was the thing about having nothing. It made you bold. Eden didn’t feel fear. Not yet. What she felt was unavailable. Numb, on the edge of something primal. Like her instincts were holding their breath, waiting to see if she was about to step into a miracle… or a casket.

She grabbed the rose water mist from her nightstand, hesitated, then spritzed a light veil of it over her curls instead of her neck. Just a whisper of hydration and a ghost of a scent that faded almost instantly. The text had said no perfume, and she wasn’t trying to test boundaries with creatures who drank life juice for breakfast.

She grabbed her keys, slipped her phone into her bra, and stared down at her chipped black nail polish before muttering, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then she locked the door behind her.

The drive to the Warehouse District felt longer than it was. The rust-colored Honda coughed once at a red light and stuttered like it was nervous, too. Eden slapped the dash like she was coaxing a stubborn mule.

“Not tonight, baby, c’mon…”

She turned up the radio, some old Destiny’s Child track with a beat strong enough to drown her thoughts. She sang along half-heartedly, mouthing the lyrics more than meaning them, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel like she was trying to tap the fear out of her bloodstream.

Her mind didn’t cooperate.

What if it’s a cult? What if they drain you and leave you in a ditch behind a daiquiri shop? What if it’s real?

She wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.

She pulled up to the address just after midnight. The building loomed like it had been waiting for her. It was tall, industrial, and built from bones and bad decisions. The kind of place that still smelled faintly of sweat, rust, and prohibition. Like someone had converted a cotton mill into a nightclub and then forgotten to put up a sign.

All the windows were blacked out. No buzz of neon. No music. No movement. Just that single red light above the steel door, blinking slow and steady like a pulse. Or a warning.

Eden sat there for a second longer than she meant to, the engine idling as her hand hovered near the key. Her stomach flipped, hard and sudden. It was that same twist she felt before going on stage, before she opened her mouth and let the world judge her voice, her dream, her want.

That anticipatory ache. That leap of faith you had to take before a mic, a man, or a monster.

Then she got out.

The air hit her like a wet rag, thick with humidity, heavy with something else. Something older than the pavement beneath her boots. The breeze curled around her ankles and crept up her spine, stirring the hem of her skirt and making the back of her neck prickle.

There was a scent in the air, faint but unmistakable. Jasmine. Smoke. No, ash. Burnt incense. Like the end of a ritual.

She stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath her boots, the only sound in the stillness. No music. No voices. Just her breath and that red light, blinking above her like a slow countdown.

When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.

Not with a creak. Not with a dramatic hiss. Just a smooth, effortless glide, like whoever or whatever was on the other side had been expecting her the whole time.

Eden paused in the threshold, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. She glanced once over her shoulder, back at her Honda parked under the flickering streetlamp, its paint dull and flaking like old blood.

She could leave. She could run.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, tucked her gloss-smudged lips into a tight line, and stepped into the dark.

A man stood just inside. Pale. No older than thirty, if you could even put an age on someone like that. His black dress shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into tailored pants that caught the low light like water. Silver chains shimmered across his collarbone, subtle and cold. White gloves on both hands, like he was either about to serve a five-course meal or prep a body for burial.

His eyes swept over her. Not sexual, not even curious. More like he was measuring her for something. A scan. Efficient, impersonal. She might as well have been a barcode.

“You’re Eden,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“Follow me.”

So she did.

The hallway was long and narrow, padded in deep red velvet that brushed against her shoulders every few steps. The walls breathed warmth, but the air stayed cool, scented faintly with clove, old paper, and something floral that had long since dried out. Dim amber sconces flickered along the path, casting warped shadows that stretched and curled with her movements. It didn’t feel like walking into a building. It felt like being swallowed.

Each step took her further from reality. Her dad’s voice in the car, still ringing with disappointment. The zeroes in her bank account. The half-finished demo she couldn’t afford to master. All of it fell away, like static detaching from a radio dial. She wasn’t sure if she was floating or sinking.

The man said nothing, just led her deeper.

Eventually, they reached a door. It looked ancient, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. Something that felt older than language, older than the city itself. They pulsed faintly under the glow of the hallway lights, as if alive beneath the grain of the wood.

The man knocked once. A dull, heavy sound.

Then he turned the handle and pushed the door open. He didn’t go in. Just stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.

Eden hesitated. Only for a second. Long enough to feel her heart rise in her throat, thick and loud. Then she stepped over the threshold.

And the world changed.

The air inside was cooler, denser, but it didn’t chill her. It settled around her skin like silk. Everything glowed in shades of wine and shadow. Low lights glinting off crystal, velvet drapes billowing near tall windows sealed shut. Music played somewhere far away, too soft to follow but rich enough to taste.

It wasn’t a room. It was a scene. A set. A spell.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn toward the figure seated at the far end.

And that was when she saw him.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn to the figure at the far end of the room.

He sat like he owned more than just the building. Like he owned the hour, the tension, even the breath in her lungs. Leaning back in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting loosely on the armrest, he looked every bit the gentleman devil.

He wore a deep burgundy suit that soaked up the light like velvet. It was tailored so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. Gold embroidery traced the lapels in delicate patterns, only catching the light when he moved. Serpents, maybe, or ivy, curling like secrets. A thick gold Cuban link chain sat heavy against his chest, and a matching pinky ring caught the lamplight when he lifted his hand to his jaw.

His skin was smooth, the kind of smooth that didn’t come from skincare, but from time. A warm brown, almost bronze, like whiskey left out in the sun. He looked like he could be in his late twenties, but Eden could feel the weight behind the stillness. The kind of quiet you feel in old houses or graveyards.

Then there were his eyes.

They held a faint glow, not glaring or artificial, but soft and strange, like candlelight burning behind thick purple glass. The color wasn’t the unsettling part; it was the depth. If she stared too long, she’d probably see everything he’d done and everything he wanted from her now.

And when he smiled—

It wasn’t wide. Just a small curl of his mouth, more on the left side, like he was letting her in on a secret she didn’t deserve to hear yet. That’s when she saw it. A gold open-faced grill on one of his fangs, subtle and gleaming. Not flashy or loud, just intentional. The kind of accessory that told you he’d been rich for longer than you’d been alive and had nothing left to prove.

Eden’s breath caught before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fascination. Probably both.

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t need to.

His voice rolled out, low and velvet-smooth, the kind that made people lean in without realizing.

“Eden,” he said, her name sitting on his tongue like something rare and expensive.

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

His gaze flicked downward, taking in her boots, her skirt, the smudge of eyeliner she hadn’t meant to look perfect. He wasn’t judging her. He was gathering details, building a file in his mind.

“Pretty name,” he said. “Pretty girl.”

Her jaw tightened at the compliment. She’d heard it too many times before from broke boys and drunk strangers. But from him, it didn’t feel cheap. It felt like a warning.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

Stack tilted his head just enough to shift the mood. Not much. Just enough to make her uneasy.

“I’m Elias Moore,” he said. “But folks around here call me Stack.”

“Stack,” she repeated.

He gave her that same half-smile.

“I like a girl who listens.”

Then he rose from his chair.

Not quickly. Not slow either. Just smoothly, like he didn’t have to try. He was taller than she expected, and his frame filled the room like music you couldn’t turn down. He moved with purpose, not just confidence, but certainty, like the floor had always been waiting for his footsteps.

When he stopped in front of her, close enough for her to feel the stillness coming off him, she realized he didn’t wear cologne. The flyer had warned against perfume, and he clearly followed the same rule. But still, there was a scent. Faint and warm, like sandalwood, old leather, maybe even dried jasmine crushed into parchment.

He raised a gloved hand.

“You can leave anytime you want,” he said. “But if you take one more step, you’re choosing not to.”

She looked at his hand. Elegant. Dead. Gold ring catching the light.

Her heart kicked hard in her chest.

She didn’t take his hand.

But she didn’t move away either.

His hand hovered in the space between them for another second before he let it fall.

Stack nodded toward a low velvet chair across from his own. “Sit if you want. Or stand. Some people feel safer that way.”

Eden moved without thinking, sliding into the seat like her knees might give out otherwise. Her palms were sweating, but she kept them in her lap. He didn’t look like the type who’d offer napkins.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt full of decisions. Stack poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass from a decanter by his elbow, then slid it across the table toward her. He didn’t pour himself one.

Eden stared at it. “Is it safe?”

Stack grinned, just a flash of gold and teeth. “Safer than most things you’ve done to chase a dream, I’d bet.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the drink and finally lifted it, more out of pride than thirst. It burned, but not bad. Smooth like molasses with a bite at the end, like it knew you had secrets and didn’t mind.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about the job.”

Eden sat straighter. “Alright.”

“You know the basics,” Stack said. “You let someone feed. You get paid. How far you want to go is up to you.”

He tapped a long finger against the table, slow, like a metronome counting down something important.

“Neck’s three hundred an hour. Wrist’s fourhundred, thigh’s five-fifty. Shoulder anywhere else, we can negotiate. You can sign on as a regular, or keep it casual. We also offer exclusive arrangements. More private. More lucrative. More dangerous.”

Eden pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, pretending she wasn’t halfway to hyperventilating. Her mouth felt like cotton and her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. But her voice held steady.

“What’s the risk?”

Stack shrugged. “Some vampires don’t know when to stop. Some donors fall in love. Some folks just aren’t built for it. We vet both sides, but accidents happen. That’s why we sign oaths. Confidentiality. Consent. Boundaries.”

She stared at him for a moment. “And you? What do you do here? Besides sit in velvet and look... like that.”

He smiled again, but slower this time, like he appreciated the jab. “I run this place. I built it. I make sure the hungry don’t get sloppy, and the desperate don’t disappear. That’s my job.”

“And if I disappear anyway?”

Stack’s smile faded, not into anger, but into something quieter. He looked at her in that same scanning way from before. Like he was looking past the makeup, past the attitude, down into the parts of her she didn’t let people touch.

“You got people who’d come looking for you?”

Eden thought of her dad. His voice on the phone, always clipped when she brought up music or asked for help. She thought of her name on the caller ID and the way he probably paused before letting it go to voicemail.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Stack didn’t look surprised. “Then you’re the kind of girl this place was made for.”

The room settled into stillness again, thick as gumbo. The only sound was the soft buzz of something electrical and the faint thump of music far beneath them. Eden’s thoughts were running in circles, dragging every old warning and new curiosity with them.

She thought about her bank account. About the way her car shuddered when she turned the key. About the silk dress she wanted to wear for her next show that still sat in the consignment window with a tag she couldn’t afford.

She thought about her voice. That gift she was chasing like it owed her something. Every sacrifice. Every studio hour. Every burnt-out candle and scribbled lyric.

And then she thought about this room. This man. This offer that felt like it came from a door she didn’t know she’d already opened.

“What happens if I say yes?” she asked.

Stack’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re fed, rested, paid. Protected. You give me your time and a little of your blood. I give you everything else.”

“And if I want more?” she asked, softer now. “Not just money. I want freedom. A little power of my own.”

For the first time, something shifted in his face. Not surprise, but interest. Real interest.

“You’d be surprised what blood can buy,” he said. “Especially when it’s yours.”

Eden exhaled slow. She didn’t know if she believed him, but she wanted to. That scared her more than anything.

She looked down at her chipped nail polish, at the ring she kept on her pinky for good luck, then back up at him.

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Once.”

Stack nodded like he already knew. He stood again and reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. Not paper. Parchment. The kind that smelled like it belonged in a museum. He laid it on the table with a small, weighted pen.

“Name, date, initials here and here. Once you sign, the room changes.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Stack’s purple eyes gleamed. “You’ll see.”

She stared at the parchment. Her heart thumped a little faster now, but she didn’t hesitate.

She signed.

And the room breathed.

Not literally, but that’s how it felt. The wallpaper shifted, shadows deepened. Something behind her spine tingled, as if the walls were watching now.

Stack watched her, too. “You hungry?”

Eden blinked. “A little.”

He extended a hand. This time, she took it.

His hand was cool. Not cold like death, just cooler than it should’ve been. Like he hadn’t been touched by sun or sweat in years. Eden followed him through a second doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She could’ve sworn that wall was solid when she walked in. Now it opened like a secret.

The new room was quieter. Darker, too, but not in a threatening way. It felt... sacred. The lighting came from candles tucked into glass sconces, their flames barely flickering. The walls were painted a deep garnet that made the space feel like it had been dipped in wine. Heavy curtains hung in the corners like they were hiding more than windows.

At the center of the room sat a low velvet couch and a wide leather chair shaped like a throne, but not gaudy. Worn in. Like someone had loved it for a long time. The air smelled faintly of clove and something richer, something warm. It wrapped around her like a robe.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Stack said, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper.

Eden moved to the couch. Her legs didn’t feel like her own anymore. The velvet was soft under her fingers, like the kind of fabric rich people bought without checking the price tag. She leaned back and took a breath.

Stack remained standing. He didn’t hover, didn’t crowd her. Just watched.

“I’m going to ask again,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

Eden nodded. “Yeah.”

He smiled, slower this time. Less show. More meaning.

“Good. Then we’ll make it clean.”

He walked over to a cabinet near the back of the room and pulled out a shallow silver bowl, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. Then he lit a bundle of dried herbs and let the smoke curl into the corners. It didn’t choke the air, just warmed it, changed it. Eden felt something loosen in her chest. The fear didn’t vanish, but it dulled.

“This is how we start,” he said. “No one touches without consent. You say stop, I stop. You say no, we’re done. Say the word mercy if anything feels wrong.”

She nodded. “Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

The words should’ve felt patronizing. But they didn’t. They felt like a key turning in a door.

He set the bowl on a low table beside the couch, then took off his gloves. His hands were ringed in gold and the veins under his skin looked faintly violet, like there was something strange running through him.

“Where?”

Eden’s throat went dry.

She remembered the ad. Neck. Thigh. Wrist. Options like a damn menu. It sounded transactional until it was real. Until you had to say it out loud to someone who would actually do it.

She tilted her head, just slightly, exposing her throat.

“Neck,” she said. “Just there.”

Stack moved slowly, no rush in him. He came to sit beside her, close but careful, like she was a page in a holy book he wasn’t sure he had permission to read. He didn’t touch her at first. Just looked.

His eyes had that same violet glow, soft and low like candlelight. There was no hunger in them, not the way she’d imagined. No animal in the shadows. Just need, steady and patient.

He brushed her curls back with a single finger. His touch was deliberate. Reverent.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he said. “Then warmth.”

She nodded, even though her heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear her own breath.

He leaned in.

His mouth was cool against her skin, not open at first. Just resting there. Then she felt it. A brief, sharp ache, like a pinprick from a needle that knew where to go. Not pain exactly. More like being opened.

Then came the warmth. A slow pull that tugged at her chest and her belly and somewhere deeper. It was dizzying. She gripped the couch cushion beside her and let her eyes fall shut.

She thought it would feel like something being taken from her. But it didn’t. It felt like something shared. Something circular. Like her blood was telling a story and he was just listening, slow and careful, taking only what he needed.

When he pulled back, he let out a slow breath against her skin.

“That’s enough.”

Eden blinked her eyes open. Her limbs felt light, her mind foggy but soft, like she’d just come out of a warm bath.

He pressed a cool cloth to her neck, then leaned back to give her space.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She had to think about it. Then she smiled.

“Like I just got kissed by something dangerous.”

Stack chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s because you did.”

He stood and reached for a small black envelope on the side table. Inside was a stack of crisp bills. Cash. The real kind. Eden took it with fingers that still tingled.

“This is yours,” he said. “For tonight.”

She didn’t count it. She didn’t need to.

Stack looked down at her, head slightly tilted. “You ever want more, you know where to find me.”

Eden stood, a little shakier than she expected. She gathered her purse, her keys, her thoughts. Her neck still throbbed gently, but not in a bad way.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And Eden?”

She turned.

His eyes were glowing again, soft but unreadable.

“You were made for this.”

She didn’t answer. She just walked out into the night, heart pounding, mouth dry, and mind racing. The street outside was the same as when she’d arrived. But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The rust-colored Honda didn’t shudder this time. It purred like it was just as stunned as she was.

Eden drove with the windows down, letting the thick New Orleans night wrap around her like a wet velvet shawl. The air was rich with honeysuckle, oil, and the ghost of a second line that had long since moved on. Her neck still buzzed, not with pain, but with presence. A lingering echo of fangs and breath and a moment that felt like it cracked something open inside her.

She rolled past the neon flicker of corner stores and daiquiri shops, the cracked sidewalks of uptown giving way to potholes and porch lights. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her car did. Heavy, syrupy things that stuck to the edges of her brain and refused to form full sentences.

She’d sold her blood. Just handed it over like a receipt. Signed her name on a scroll older than any contract she’d ever seen. Sat inches from a man with glowing eyes and a golden fang and said yes.

And yet… she didn’t feel wrong.

Her heartbeat was steady now, settled. Her limbs were loose and lazy, like her body knew something she didn’t. Like it had crossed a threshold and didn’t see a reason to go back.

At a red light, she glanced at the cash in her passenger seat. Real money. More than she’d made in a month of folding sweaters at the campus bookstore. Her fingers twitched with the urge to count it, to be sure, but something in her resisted. That wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was how she felt. And for once, it wasn’t desperate.

It was dangerous.

She parked outside her apartment just after two a.m., the same flickering streetlamp buzzing above her like always. Normally, she would’ve slumped inside, peeled off her shoes, microwaved something sad, and stared at her ceiling until sleep came to find her. But tonight she sat still in the car, engine off, listening to the sound of cicadas and the low rumble of the city that never really slept.

She touched her neck. There was no bandage. Just skin. Tender, yes, but smooth.

Like he’d never been there.

But he had. And her body remembered.

When she finally made it inside, Eden didn’t bother undressing. She collapsed onto her bed face-up, curls fanned across the pillow, clothes still sticking to her from the sweat of the night. She meant to scroll her phone, maybe check her email. Instead, sleep came hard and fast.

And with it, the dream.

She was back in the velvet room, but everything was softer. Louder. Redder. The walls pulsed like they had a heartbeat. Candles melted into puddles on the floor, filling the air with the smell of blood-orange and clove.

Stack stood across from her, suit jacket off now. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt rolled to the elbows. The gold on his wrist glinted in the candlelight, and his grill caught her eye when he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not cold.

This smile was hot and low and deliberate.

He crossed the room without a word, steps soundless, until his hands were on her waist. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was magnetic. Her body leaned in before her mind caught up.

“Still not scared?” he murmured.

His voice brushed her skin like silk and sin.

“No,” she said, or maybe just thought it. In dreams, it didn’t matter.

He pressed his forehead to hers, just long enough for her to feel the thrum of something ancient behind his skin. Then his lips traced the spot on her neck he’d bitten. Not kissing. Not quite.

Tasting.

She gasped.

And woke up breathless.

Her bedroom was dark and quiet. The fan whirred above her, and outside someone’s dog barked once, then stopped. Her skin was slick with sweat, but she didn’t feel hot.

She felt hollow. Wired. A little drunk on something that hadn’t happened.

She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and reached for her phone.

The screen lit her face in blue, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were too sharp. Her lips too calm. She looked like someone with secrets. The kind of girl you warned people about.

Eden opened her messages and scrolled to the last number in her phone.

504-9VAMPYR.

She stared at it for a long minute, thumb hovering. Then she typed three words.

When’s the next?

She hit send. No emoji. No punctuation. Just intent.

The message delivered with a quiet chime.

And Eden leaned back in her bed, the dream still clinging to her skin like smoke.

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew she wanted more.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place. Wear red.

Tag List: @whoaitslucyylu @omgffs @healanette @secret89sblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25 @jackierose902109 @hotcommodityyy @browngirldominion @j0ysyndr0m3

[notapradagurl7]

His Woman.

Black Fem! Reader x Elias “Stack” Moore.

Summary: After one night of drunken sex with Stack, he couldn’t let you go. He was possessive in the worst way, and ready to kill any man who tried to talk to you. But that slick mouth of his was surely a sin and had him crawling back to you.

WC: 2,637k.

Warnings: angst, praise, choking kink, cursing, spanking, possessive!Stack, use of the n-word, dirty talk, consensual intimacy, violence, unprotected sex, murder, doesn’t follow the flim’s timeline, AU where Stack doesn’t even meet Mary, protective!Stack.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1 @beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @secret89sblog

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereinawrites @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rose-bliss @wanderingrein-blog @kindofaintrovert @marley1773

—————

Your deep brown eyes remained intently fixed on the polished bar top, meticulously wiping down every nook and cranny with a black washcloth. The warm amber-orange glow from the ceiling lights spotlighted the sheen of your melanated skin.

On the small stage, a soulful black band filled the air with a sweet, melodic harmony, while a plus-sized black woman with rich, dark brown skin stood confidently before a gleaming silver microphone. Her hand grasped the slender stand as she swayed gently, her hips moving in time to the rhythm.

Around you, black men and black women gathered at sturdy brown tables, their laughter and spirited conversations blending seamlessly with the music.

Many held beer glasses high, some spilling a mix of hard and light liquor onto the polished brown hardwood floor, causing their shoes to click rhythmically with every animated gesture.

The moonlight poured through large windows, casting a silvery glow on their melanated skin.

Adorning the walls, pictures of joyful black couples and legendary black singers, juxtaposed with a mounted Moosehead.

She sang a sweet song of love, and having a hold on the person she talked about, it was as if she was speaking from your perspective and Stack’s.

“Don’t you know that love I had for you? Ain’t I the one the you chose? I’ve got a hold on you,” Lucinda sang sweetly, the subtle rasp in her voice.

It was as if you tried to wash away the remnants of the lustful night with Stack, you were telling yourself and him that it was a one-time thing.

But Stack couldn’t let you go, hook, line and sinker.

His touch, the way he treated you, and the passion behind his kisses lingered in your mind.

Stacks had a dangerous charm that could lead to his demise, yet he had evaded death repeatedly. He was prepared for violence, making death wary of him and Smoke.

He made it clear to you that his woman, he didn’t want any confusion on your parts but you tried to tell him at least twice since he was a pimp.

His woman, his girl. Beloved one.

“Hey there, sweetheart, can I trouble you for ‘nother drink? I’m out of liquor…need a refill, and who knows, maybe I can take you out after,” the old man called out, his voice a harsh rasp that cut through the hum of conversation.

As a bartender, you learned to navigate the unpredictable ways of the bar, where the cocktail mixing was often paired with the unwelcome advances of patrons.

Catcalls and crude remarks came with the job, like an unwanted haze. Each time, you brushed off the advances with practiced ease, reminding them, and yourself, that you were spoken for—Stack was your anchor in this chaotic sea.

The mere mention of his name usually silenced the rowdy men; his reputation was enough to keep unwanted trouble at bay. You only said his name to keep these men away from you, as far as possible.

Your face twisted up in disgust at his remark, “No, there’s a drinkin’ limit, and I’m taken. I’m Stack’s woman, Go on about your business, now,” you shot back, wiping the glass in circular motions.

“Hey! You ain’t talkin’ to me, girl? I said that I need a damn drink,” The old man yelled in a harsh tone, his voice was raspy, breath reeked of cigar smoke.

The heavy brown lumber door swung open with a creak, revealing Stack as he strode into the bar.

His crimson red tailored suit clung to his form, the confidence radiating from him. The scene shifted abruptly; bartenders paused mid-pour, patrons halted their conversations, and even the band’s melody came to an abrupt stop, replaced by a tense silence that hung in the air.

Gasps of fear rippled through the crowd, but you remained unaffected, just as the old man sitting at the corner table did.

Stack walked in like he owned the place, each step deliberate and echoing authority.

He closed the door behind him with a deliberate, eerie creak that punctuated the stillness.

With a fluid motion, he pinched the thin fabric of his fedora red hat and tipped it toward you, revealing the intensity in his deep brown eyes.

They locked onto yours with an electrifying gaze that sent a jolt through you, compelling you to look away.

But the moment was short-lived, as his focus shifted to a foolish man trying to push his way too close, igniting a flicker of irritation in Stack’s face.

Stack dashed to the bar table swiftly, his face etched possessiveness and fury. He couldn't permit any man to touch you or speak to you; just the idea of it made him seethe with rage.

Before he could touch you, his hand was yanked and twisted behind his back. A bone cracking noise fills the bar. A gut-wrenching scream left the old man's lips, and hissing in pain.

A gold grill glistened in his evil grin, “You deaf, nigga? She’s my woman,” Stack barked at him.

The old man’s eyes wide in fear, body quaking from Stack’s southern twang, and rasp in his deep voice, everyone in Mississippi feared the twin brothers and when their names were heard, they could have sworn that demons escaped from the depths of Hell.

“S-Stack?! I’m sor—“ The old man tried to apologize but Stack cuts him off immediately.

It always seemed like eveytime you were trying to move forward, Stack was pulling you back. The vicissitudes of life were always there to strike without warning, you need to get away from him.

“Now you sorry? When a man steps up but don’t a nigga ever listen to a woman? Bitch ass nigga, Back the fuck off my woman, who the hell you think you talkin’ to?” Stack yelled back, smacking the back of his head.

Stack’s hand yanked the man by the back of his collared tee shirt, pulling him back and threw on him on the brown hardwood floor with a loud thud, he grunted in a pain.

“No! Please! I ain’t mean no harm!” The old man pleaded in softened voice, holding his hands up in defense.

Stack snatched his pistol from his back pocket of his pants, switching his gun off safety as his evil grin curled upon his face. “Now you wanna beg for your lil life? When mess with her, you do!” He darkly chuckled, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Stack! You’re causin’ trouble, take that shit outside!” You called out to him, pointing to the door.

Just as you told him, he carried the old man outside to the vast forest with the other two men walking beside him, you sighed in disapproval.

You briefly spoke to your boss, as she gave you a glare, and you ran outside to see Stack aiming a gun at the old man, your breath caught in your throat.

“Tell the devil I said leave me and mines the fuck away, Satan don’t want no problems with me or my brother,” Stack declared with authority, aiming his gun toward the man.

Stack’s finger squeezed trigger twice, the gunshot echoed in the night sky as the bullets pierced his heart and skull, and blood splattered out as the men picked up the body, and cleaned up the mess. As they walked away, you approached him.

Stack turned to you with that sinful smirk of his, while you gave him an unfazed glare.

“Elias, I’m glad that his weird ass is dead, but I told you that it was one night?” you replied back, your tone calm.

Now it was his turn to remain unfazed by what you said, even though you called him by his real name which meant that you were serious. He stepped closer to you, towering over you.

“So you ain't feelin' the same way? You tellin’ me that you found ‘nother nigga that can beat up that pussy like I do? Take care of you like I do?”

Your cheeks flushed from his smooth words, and your clit pulsed in response. You tried to speak, but nothing emerged from your lips; instead, images from that night overwhelmed your thoughts, quickening your breath.

He simply took your arms and drew you in, bringing your bodies together so closely that you could sense each other's heartbeats.

“Y-you’re a pimp and I'm not one of your hoes, I'm a workin’ woman, and I don't people thinkin’ any kind of way, Elias,” You said, looking away from him.

Stacks shook his head disagreeing, dipping his head to meet your gaze and brought your face to his, “You’re mine, and I'm yours, fuck what folks say or think. You feel that? Our hearts are in sync, baby,” he whispers to you.

Your breath shudders from his voice, as your hands grip the fabric of his tailored red suit. “You fell in love with me that fast?” you asked him, looking up at him.

“It’s been damn near two weeks since that night, I don't plan on givin’ you some dick and dippin’ Y/N. I'm all in,” He replied back, sincerity in his voice.

You couldn't believe that you were falling for this man, you told yourself you wouldn't be like this. But Stack was in the same boat as you, sailing along the same ocean. You weren't alone at all.

“That slick mouth of yours is gonna get you into some trouble, sweetie. Don't you think?” You flirted playfully, smirking at him.

“If it’s you then I don't mind it, you're worth that trouble. Do you want to make up and go back to my place or yours?” he asked, smirking back.

“How about my place as always?” You spoke up, biting your lip.

Those words from you made him smile, crashing his lips into yours, you responded by kissing him back, lips latching onto his. Tongues battling for dominance, as you moaned softly. “Mmm..”

After that, he was back nestled in your cozy creaking bed. Clothes littered across the floor, the sound of lips colliding and skin-to-skin slapping filling the room, your loud moans in between.

Your back leaned back on the soft bedsheets with Stack’s hips thrusting into your pussy forcefully, as he hovered over you. “You always take dick this good?” he mewled, peppering kisses, his hands gripped your hips tight, drawing out uncontrollable moans from you. You were too busy drooling on the pillow to even remember what you were angry about, your mind was blank. “Fuckk..Elias!”

He clenched his lip, attempting to keep the sounds at bay. Flipping you onto your side, he pushed his dick in further and slapped your ass. "Don't wanna talk no shit? I told you that I'm yours…” he groaned, his eyelids closed tightly once your wet walls gripped around him. You couldn't respond back.

Elias had to be the one to remind you with every relentless stroke, his dick was coated in your cum ever so completely, and he wanted to get every drop. “Damn, tell me what you want,” he grunted, his hand wrapped around your neck, bringing you in for a kiss.

His pace quickened, and you felt the delicious friction build as he hit all the right spots. “More, please… harder,” you pleaded, your body craving more of him, more of this connection.

With a grin, he obliged as his hips snapping against yours, sending you spiraling deeper into bliss. “You’re beautiful, too good for me,” he murmured, admiration and desire lacing his words.

He was right, you were too good for him. You didn't pay much attention to his words, but you could do was moan his name. As he thrusts into you, he gripped your asscheeks to keep you still and for his dick to keep hitting that spot, your mind was hazy, tears falling from your eyes, “Elias…c-can’t take it..” you mumbled off.

The bed creaked underneath both of you with the your nails digging into his back as you felt your climax approach quickly. “I know, baby,” he reassured, his breath warm against your ear as he continued to drive into you, relentless and passionate. Something felt so right with him, why could you try to let him go?

Knots tightening in the pit of your stomach on cue, eyes rolling back. You felt him push even deeper to hit that sweet spot that made you twitch, you loved it. “Cumming!”

You came undone on his dicm without warning, your body shaking underneath him as your back arched, he followed suit by pulling out of you, releasing his thick jets of cum onto the bed sheets. “Fuck,” he groaned raspily, holding your hand gently.

After that, you slowly rose from the bed, the gentle warmth of the covers replaced by the cool air of the room.

Stack, ever attentive, offered his hand to help you up, his touch reassuring as you found your footing.

You made your way into the bathroom, where he guided you beneath the cascading water of the shower, helping you to wash away the remnants of sleep and your night together.

Once you were refreshed, you slipped into your soft purple nightgown, its fabric delicate against your skin. A yawn escaped you, You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against Stack's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin as you bid him farewell.

As he prepared for the night ahead, Stack stood before the mirror, carefully adjusting his tailored suit. He caught your gaze through the reflection, his eyes sparkling with love.

"Would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?" he asked, his voice steady as he met your eyes in the mirror.

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of skepticism in your tone as you responded, "Like a date?"

Stacks chuckled lightly, nodding his head. "It is a date, and I want everyone to know that I belong to you, and we’re a couple,”

A warm smile spread across your face as those familiar words floated through the air, your lips gently biting in anticipation. “So, it’s a date then! But where are we headed?”

With a playful glint in his eyes, he replied, “It’s a special surprise. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Agreed! I can't wait,” you responded, your heart racing with excitement.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss. As he pulled back, he tipped his hat with a charming flourish, a playful grin crossing his face.

Stepping out of your house, you watched him glide to his car, adding a playful wink as he hopped inside and revved the engine.

A pang of longing swept over both of you as he drove away, leaving you both with a sweet ache of seeing each other for the evening to come.

—————

[cremeful]

brat!reader and yn!stack go to a house party ! + smoke being a crashout ! ft this song

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